I keep thinking.

When everything finally starts to be fine I'm pretty sure you'll probably find me sitting on my bedroom floor filling my lungs up with cigarette smoke and over-analyzing the situation in a "Dear Self," note. And I'll start to bite, bite, bite off my nails nervously like I've done for the past 20 years and put on some music so nobody hears when I yell at myself for being such a screw up and not using my brain. Sometimes I feel like my own mind is my worst enemy and gets pleasure out of seeing me fail and tells me that what I feel in my heart is all fairy tales. It tells me when everything finally starts to be fine I'm pretty sure I'll probably find some way to get back in the same mess. I should probably believe my mind over my heart, I guess.