I cringe at the sight of distaste.
The submission of one’s self worth to a force worth nothing.
I cringe at despair.
The passion to dance by the window while nobody’s watching.
I cringe at believing lies.
The surreal dreamer casting on a self made illusion.
The truth about it is.
I cringe at myself at night.
You see things in a different light. A definitive way to engage in one’s destruction.
Tragic ways of indulgent delight. Maybe I should tell you, the problem in finding yourself is the thought of losing who you thought you are and who you think you were.