A/N: yeah, so. I updated? and now this is more an angsty poetry dump than an angsty poetry autobiography. whatever.

she's coughing the words out but they're so hard to say

so she turns the music up so far it hurts her ears

and buries her mind in layer after layer of distraction

(she can't focus on what she needs to [or anything else])

and she wonders about strange things, painting castles in the air

that she knows she can never reach, never

(but she wants it so bad it hurts)

she tries to hold on but her fingers slip through the clouds

and she's stuck in the hazy fog again

(she hates it down here on earth, it's lonely and so confusing)

the music is still playing, the rippling melody ripping her apart

and the crashing beat pounding in her head until she can hardly think

(but that's okay, because she doesn't want to think anyway)

the bright, dazzling screen promises oblivion

and she reaches out and accepts it

(but the peace is temporary and she knows that)

she's floating on a sea of words

some would call them empty, but she knows they're not

(because every word has deadly power)

she closes her eyes and smiles

she's found the right music and the right story

(and somehow they give her the strength to try again).