I can’t sleep again.
I’m in the red again
No space in my head again
We can just pretend
We’ll make it home again
From everything now
I can’t self-soothe again, can’t let go again, can’t run from it again. Perhaps the battle is akin to Edge of Tomorrow’s never-ending day, a wicked game against succumbing morale.
I don’t want to fall in love with you. Didn’t. Oops. You’re an amplifier of sorts, distorting synthetic resin that was pressed poorly, but also enhancing the subtle tones of good mastering.
I hate this, and myself, and how — since my collapse — I periodically lack the skill to heal and collect my shards. I’d rather be normal. I’d rather be just like everyone else, instead of these barbed, virulent fragments.
Where’s my schema?
Control your delusions. Sound the dread alarm.
Rise. Remember the drive. Remember the mechanics. Mobilize.
Safe and seen. Safe and seen. Remember the mechanics. Remember your bones.
Let’s try again.
I’m in the black again.