In the early 2000s, I was a teenage lyricist who writes gloomy songs with ridiculously long titles (this is not a song about you)

I gaze up at the white plastic lights —
The pasty walls start dripping on my
Wrists are numbing but my legs
Are crumbling into a jar of spoiled honey
I dunk headfirst into the chlorine water
Equalising my thoughts and my

Disorder. Disorderly. Disordered.

Sinking to the depth of the military-grade
Pool and delicacies
As my lifelines are on hold
And my arms are melting into goo
And my hair tangling in minerals
As my legs regain their
Consciousness and the white plastic lights
Bleed into me
As I gasp for air
At the bottom of my own

Disorderly disordered disorder