Obvious to Even My Eyes.

You wish to hate her. But you cannot find a good enough reason to do so.  So you just love her and love her and love her for that tired but beautifully resilient soul. You wish to hate her, but you come to realize that you are not the only one privy to those dusty crevices in her mind. You wish to hate her even when she's sinking- but you just fucking can't. Even at her worst.

Destitute

You hope to write of it as though it is not that incorrigible word that your heart reverberates with when teetering on the brink of rest. As though it is more or less than what it truly is. But you know it is but one thing that consumes you when you leave yourself to... well- - yourself. And it is most pitiful because in those moments your vices are what look ridiculously enticing. It is warm saccharine to your clouded lungs and slender company to your nimble fingers.