The bags under my eyes are not Prada. They’re Ativan aided nightmares and a wandering mind. 

My dad tells me I need sleep. 

He says the bags under my eyes are heavy but he doesn’t know my chest weighs heavier,

And he tells me cigarettes and coffee aren’t a balanced breakfast, to eat a banana or two…

I’m trying.

Day by day.

Minute by minute.

One foot in front of the other.

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