Sunday, November 2, 2008

dirty hair.

The city rolls under the sky, it is a skin full of lights. I am a mammal without a cause. Please tell me why I must feel like a piece of shit. Why must we go under the knife of expectation and come out with messed up stitches. Fuck. Stitch me… I’ll end up ripping them out in a fight. Right?

Sadness is an auxiliary monotone dye. Don’t die yet. I have a lot to say to you but your mouth is closed to me. Don’t look at me like that. I’m not a skeleton. I washed the dishes. I washed my hair. My room doesn't smell like an animals den. I didn’t lose the race…
That’s a lie.
Don't make me feel bad.

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