Terms like "high" and "low" imply that only one at a time will slide, but that couldn't be farther from the case.
I look inside of every sigh that escaped my fissured lips and I know that I may not ever get to be doing better than getting by because I--
I am a fly on the wall of my own dilapidated life.
I am the hunger of a butterknife.
Living life doesn't make me alive no--
not as much as crimson trickles, a perfect sight for tired eyes.