They say, he, he dreams of fucking a gun
Writes like him and death violently eat lunch, chewing while teeth fall out
Surely, he’s trying to influence screams, suicidal darkness dreams, glamorizing
As if it’s pretty _ hating one’s self always shitty _ never good enough
Tell him it’s not cool _ he is without potent clues_suicide isn’t fun_as if I he didn’t price shop for a final gun.
Mad, because he writes like it’s paradise
Scars on his arm as if it’s nice spiralling down darker whispers among dimming lights
Logically aware of errors, a damned heart still does damage
Writing out the imaginary self-inflicted gunshots, say he thinks it funny
Feeling rejected from everything until he learns Independence, builds up resistance
We can only truly save ourselves.
He wants you to eat popcorn while blood flows through your ears, A joke to him
His favorite movie, pessimistic lines again, breaking down resistance
Game to him, watching you cry behind sad scenes
As if it’s pretty _ hating one’s self always shitty _ never good enough.