tables and chairs

we're just stupid teenagers

sofa surfing on hormones and delusions

that fog the lines between periods of infatuation

and fleeting moments of mutual satisfaction

that we relish as real

but what's real in an existence flooded with dopamine?

where the clouds are made of nicotine,

the water tastes like caffeine,

plants grow on lorazepam

and there's meth

in every breath

i don't know who you are;

i don't know who i am

we're not 'meant to be',

our love is a sham