Fuck you to the girly pop who made me watch dead poets society. i’ve got enough on my plate already without having to mourn the death of a fictional suicidal twink every 20 minutes.
there’s no wishing well, dandelion, eyelash, Trevi Fountain, turkey bone, eleven eleven, shooting star, or birthday cake magic enough to make a miracle of this life—this life of mine I cut open on the altar of my greatest fears. this life I bloodlet for red medicine to dope away the pain of not living in Love.