your esteem was a transient condition, always on edge. frailty, whims and indecision. shakeable, always. this can never serve you though, young girl.
your esteem is a transient condition. the death of you in future years. the death of you in the past, and in present, a fragment, held together by cheap duct tape, and maybe a shoe lace or two. maybe an instagram photo or two. careful young girl.
your esteem wants to own you indefinite. it has it's dark, skinny, vein ridden, twiggy hands all over your straight, sandy blond hair. it wants to devour your oxygen. pay to play, but it need not beg.
it persuades. it lulls. it has more of, everything you want. i wish i could help you. but, unfortunately, i have my own enemies. the demons sometimes dance in the dark, but if you look closely enough, they bask in the sun.