every night before sleep i’ll daydream of my death,

an injury or emotional breakdown,

i

I’m sick of my own words

I’m sick of my own grief

I’m sick of my constant attempts to make

it's 4:44 and I've found myself in that state
again

the one where a specific slit in your chest

i don't love you but i need you
to love me. to

text me first and not let me say goodnight.

i

from the silent skittle of insects unseen
and rushing of rivers in uninterrupted streams

- is

”If it didn’t rain, would the trees rise from the ground?”

you sent me a song, when it