i don't think i'm well...psychologically speaking

you're on your second glass of wine. i've just dried my eyes. my phone's blue-light is killing my retinas. and i'm still in my room, phone so close to my face you'd call it unhealthy. texting the person i should not be.

and you. you fucking listen to me.

the one man who has all the right in the world to say get the fuck out of here

and i'm tired of being okay
i'm so tired of being the strong one

i'd rather be a paperweight 
singular in purpose, unfazed by the cruelty of time
at least then i'd know what i was meant to be
all this living's draining the life out of me