i hate people telling me what to do.
my ever dearest mother. thank you for everything. thank you for thinking you know so much about my life, when you hardly do. and since you said nothing good ever comes out of my mouth, i don't see much point in talking to you since you can't appreciate me for that. surely you don't expect me to change for you. come on..Now don't come and telling me i'm sulking.
Small, simple, safe price
Rise the wake and carry me with all of my regrets
This is not a small cut that scabs, and dries, and flakes, and heals
And I am not afraid to die
I'm not afraid to bleed, and fuck, and fight.
I want the pain of payment
What's left, but a section of pigmy size cuts
Much like a slew of a thousand unwanted fucks
Would you be my little cut?
Would you be my thousand fucks?
And make mark leaving space for the guilt to be liquid
To fill, and spill over, and under my thoughts
My sad, sorry, selfish cry out to the cutter
I'm cutting trying to picture your black broken heart
Love is not like anything
Especially a fucking knife
I'M MYSELF'S BIGGEST FAN.
and yes, i'm angry.
:: WORDS ESCAPED ME AT ::
-10:18 PM-