Crisp fall winds and spiced baked apples. Weathered knit sweaters and the opening line of a novel. The roast of a fresh flame and the scent it stains you with or a warm hug after the first frost followed by a hot tea after the sunset. I wish these were still the things that satisfied me. I lay here chilled and disassociated from anything or anyone that brings joy with their presence. The sound of my heart beating resembles the screams of withdrawal; coaxing me into psychosis effortlessly. My vision is distorted, as the people around me are now the antagonists of my story. Much like my sanity, my ability to love others is absent; depleted. My soul is starving for hatred and craving the savory taste of desertion. I lick my lips at the wounds my words have caused others and I laugh in their weakness. I cackle at their pain. My eyes widen in fixation as their agony gets me higher than any drug I’ve ever ingested.
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