Everybody tells me to keep going, but in the end, I am alone. I was born alone, and I am in bed alone. There is no remedy but my breath, which will not recede, only heave. I’m hot. I’m gorgeous. Pretty sure you’re about to hate me. Pretty sure life is rough at times. Like a house of cards, I fall apart; I’m empty inside.

Words carry so much wisdom. Words carry so much despair, and I wonder: where is beauty when I need it?

It’s morning, and I wake up. It’s morning, and I go to bed again. My body refuses to work today, so I have to reschedule everything else. In my sleep, I’m a punk star. When I wake up, I’m just a punk. An outcast. A loner.

I love my leftist friends who don’t care. They don’t even ask. There is so much willpower in survival. Do you see the understanding that arises in the touch of skin and fabric? Like: hide yourself for a while, for a few months, don’t leave your room, all dark except for the glow of your red eyes. Let’s talk again afterwards.

What did you expect? Death and sickness know no privilege. With fever, we are all the same, you know.

I’m kind of a funny person, really. Like, I make jokes a lot. My words know their strength. It’s morning, and just waking up tires my body so much that I need to sleep again. It’s morning, and no one cares.