There still is air in our lungs
No matter how many times we fill them with smoke

We've been fucked up, we've been needing help
But we're still here, right?
Still typing in this fucking white empty box

An X, a box, and a dash
*Untitled - Notepad
File, Edit, Format, View, Help
White Void in which to insert Bullshit™
Scrollerless scroll bar
Ln 13, Col 13, 100%, Windows (CRLF), UTF-8

I'm not a writer, Taz is. But they wanted me to type
From what I understand she's the new host
Until Derex comes back from dormancy, that is
They've popped in to chat for a moment or two
But they havent fronted in ages.

Taz, well, Taz isnt meant to be a host
Not that they can't be, they can when we have stability
Especially in reflection and looking into the system
But stability is something we haven't seen in many new moons

Taz is struggling to keep up with everything
I don't blame her, but she barely has us together
Got more slices in their arm than there are stars in the sky
Has been unable to find any hospital that could concievably help us
(Though that isn't their fault, fuck the US mental health system)
Has been struggling getting us to do the basic tasks to live
Before a few days ago we haven't gone for groceries in weeks
And when we did it was all energy drinks.

There's been breakdowns where at times we started writing notes
At first for going to the hospital
Then for our suicide
Then from there it interchanged
We never sent them
Never saved them either
Our friends are worried enough

To keep us safe and stable and out of the ER,
(Because again, fuck the US mental health system)
We started ramping up how much weed we do
Which was already a decent amount
Being a college student with disabilities and a medical card

From edibles and new herbs and blends
To super powerful pens that'll get you high enough to momentarily graze psychosis
That'll make you sick for the beginning
But at the end you get to shut up, lay down, time skip,
And no longer be able to think

The more we hurt the more we do
The more we cut the more we do
The more notes we make, the more we do
It's been like this for months

I cant stand having to constantly worry about my death, let alone everyone else's in the system
We've lost people before and we almost did several times this year and we can't go through it again
I still get those flashbacks, still haven't processed through it all
And I still gotta process through the times we did way too much weed
Trapped in a self-made and self-perpetuated coma on the mattress on the floor
With a half empty water bottle and some popcorn for the next 24 hours

But we can't focus on us having those struggles
We aren't stable enough
We have to bike 10 miles over to the dispensary to get enough to last us a year
On normal occasions, that is
But in this state who knows how long that'll last
Especially the longer until we get medical help

Whatever, guess I'll take whatever keeps us undead and will stop me from seeing my ghosts

Fill three capsules, all with the same strain
Garlic Cookies, strongest they sell
Take a deep breath
Exhale
Take a sip
Lay back
Take two more
Stare at the ceiling
Take four more
Green out