Why is it beautiful that humanity keeps coming back? So does herpes.
I sigh inside, so exhausted by these ugly questions, but when did a monster ever deserve its privacy?
Everything you see, you might be seeing for the last time.
Are my words ever actually audible, or do they just echo in my head while people stare at me, waiting?
You might say that death has relaxed me.
But it does make me sad that we've forgotten our names. Out of everything, this seems to me the most tragic. I miss my own and I mourn for everyone else's, because I'd like to love them, but I don't know who they are.