I wish I could hold together the structure of my thoughts, but they jingle around in my head like tacks, their little red haloes lessen the tiny stings by half. Pity.
I've destroyed myself again and I feel as though my skull bleaches itself without the necessity of death or rot. My misery is a pretty fucking arid place.
I wait for telephones that will not ring and if they do, the voices that speak will come from mouths whose words burn hotly behind stupid tongues that manage to chastise and congratulate in the same tone.
I push everyone and their beautiful deliberate walks away from me, nice things said I roll my eyes.
No flowers--I have allergies.
No chocolates--I am not hungry again.
Nothing heart shaped unless it's still bleeding and in a cool jar.
That's just the way I am. Too worthy to be worthy. Take it away.
Let me rot and wallow in my lonely little melodrama that no one wants to see.
Let my bones protrude and the vein above my eye show through my skin when it becomes like the paper I would be writing this on if it weren't for the convenience of my keyboard
It's got three sticky keys that I have to use a knife to pull uppp.
Let the room fill up with smoke because no one will object if the pack goes down and my lungs dry up.
I'll make the room smell of secrets, here where your words are not heard, no desire needs to ever be felt at all because we leave that at the door here.
Right by the umbrellas that I never remember I have.
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