inhale, exhale. constant reminders that beauty is still left in even the most destructive things. stomach doing cartwheels around the world and eyes searching for something more, a bigger piece to the puzzle. searching for identity, blurred faces stay behind along with fuzzy words. a box hides under the bed containing faces and hidden explanations. a thick notebook with pretty words disguising themselves as excuses, trying to form reason out of cracks in the ground.

i felt like writing, thats what i got out of it.
i'm kind of proud.