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breathe.
Oh damn
Men like him are wallpaper, always there, always leering, always thinking they have a right to the space I take up.
feel like I’ve taken up space and left a mark, like I’m something that won’t disappear the second the door closes behind me.
And I feel nothing.
Fame is a fire, and I want to burn with it until there’s nothing left.
elegant
Wtf
We all rot eventually. We all fall apart. Why should I feel bad about trading blood for glory?
