I find myself chasing highs only to jump from them. But no, I am no comet. I am just a girl — all sunset eyes and gasoline. All dust grain and stale cigarettes. Shaky lips and broken mugs. Broken matches. Scissors running over my skin. Is it so bad then — wishing for my bones to finally break this time? I find myself chasing highs only to jump from them, so save my poems and all my tales. Save me the apologies I cannot say. I am sorry. I am sorry. I am sorry. “It’s not enough.” “No, it’s not. It’s okay.” Save me the apologies I cannot say. And once more, I find myself chasing highs only to jump from them. And this time, darling, there is no way to survive the fall.
—Fray Narte
