So it rained atomic bombs the day
she fled her art galleries for your imposed silence.
Her despair filled the air like a million flowers,
sickly sweetly nauseous and you swore FUCKitall
drop dead and sleep.
Ashes to ashes (we could be anything we wanted)
she's dying from nuclear sickness
while you hum and court disaster again
—don't you breathe for me—
Life is morbid.
a/n: sometimes i think i'll never get away from this goddamned country, this year-round summer and what-shit-have-you. to be sure i can't imagine being anywhere else, but somehow here it's just not fucking allowed to simply do nothing for a day or a week or a month because we're all obsessed with moving on and improving and whatever, and i can't stop swearing and i just wish it would hurry up and rain so i could run in it and cry in it and scream and scream and scream and scream.