Leavin

It smells like a road where the asphalt is warm but full of cracks - as if life has already driven over it a couple hundred times without brakes. Here, fatigue doesn't whine, it hisses, like a cigarette stubbed out on the palm of your hand. Outside, there is armor; inside, there is something too alive to pretend to be stone.

Each line sounds like a breath between wounds: someone has left again, someone has betrayed again, and ahead lies the same old “must move on.” The world around is a snake pit in expensive sneakers, and the only thing that doesn't change is this dull urge to survive, even if the boat is already leaking. A rough, sincere confession of love for chaos, in which pain has long become as familiar as breathing.