exhaustion is me.

etched in my skin like a map, embellished with pit stops at each of my scars.
the soot of my sins stain me with a lack of remorse, my body a temple ravaged by the skeletons of its own closet.

life exhausts me. pain is the new pleasure, indicative of reality. happiness is not real. it is an ephemeral delusion, a signal that life is rolling downhill and the slope is just about to get steeper.

and steeper.

and steeper.

until your life collapses under its own weight, reality pulling it towards itself with the force of gravity. you go down, back to where you started.

life comes to a full circle.

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