You're always one step behind.
Too late for the prize.
Regretting the actions you took.
Or the ones you didn't.
And now you're forced to hold your tongue; nearly biting it clean off.
Because no matter how much you mean them, your words are pointless now, and you look like a fool.
But maybe you vomit them out anyway.
Nothing will change.
It's never enough.
You're never enough.
So tired.

Vent I commissioned from mondeis a few days ago. Don't mind me, I'm just rambling. Mature for blood.

Artwork ©
Rogue ©