Mushrooms or Zoloft. Who cares. It doesn’t matter. As long as it keeps a smile on your face and the murderous visions that often play behind the mask you call your face from becoming a blood stained mess on your clothes. Sirens in the distance. Fear like you’ve never tasted richly coating your tongue.
And I need all the reasons I can find not to hate myself. But it’s hard. Even the idea makes me shiver. Because I see loving myself like looking down on others. Riding around on a high horse. And I never want to think I’m better then the people I see on the street. The ones who have it rough. The ones who don’t fit in. The ones I see my own face in.
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