relapse

there's nothing like the feel of imaginary hands phantom at you're skin tugging gently to try drag you down with them into a hole so familiar it's almost who you are. almost. the actaul climax is nothing to glorify but it's better than being surrounded by people so caught up in their own lives that they don't even consider a second glance at youre blank expression as you debate ruining 8 months progress on a random day in a random classroom in a random stream of thoughts flowing like a river that is trying to ease you into following it and to let yourself sink back into the hole and drown but not dying. when a razor is nothing more than a shaving item, you think you're better. when you can wear a shirt without panicking, you think you're better. when the only smell of copper ever filling you're senses is from a coin, you think you're better. but you're not. every river leads to an ocean