Don't respect me. At this point idk if demons are surfacing from the underworld and shooting me up in the foot, leg, knee cap, and belly or not. A friend told me they saw a 40yo version of me recently. If I don't find some very compassionate rishbish to take care of me soon, idt I'll live that long. Alternatively, the bottle of wine I drank is making me melodramatic.
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I spit bullets in my feet
Every time I speak
So I write instead
And still people want me dead
~msc
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