I type, I hit backspace, I re-type. None of it is good enough. Obviously this has some worth to me. It doesn’t matter how hard I try to brush this dust off my shoulder, I can’t. I can’t simply take my hand and touch my shoulder; rid myself of all fucked up thought. Everything that slows me down. I know it’s filling me with smoke.

Because in all reality, it’s a fucking shrub. There is a shrub on my shoulder. It’s crystal clear, you fucking told me. You told me this shrub is there, but I’m still not doing anything about it. I never thought I’d be praying for dust to be on my shoulder now more than ever. Why can’t it ever be what’s best? 

I’m just going to pretend. It’s all I know how to handle.