there are still lines from the scars on the stubs of my fingers and where the blade fucked me when i took it apart. you know it’s love when you’re hurt and the air is cold and burns your nose.
and you think you’re dead when you can no longer feel, but you’re not quite there.
remember that time when… and you were afraid of what would happen next? but you think of it all the time now, and you could care less.
i hope the next one hurts. i hope this leaves me rendered out of commission.
there’s nothing out there. i can’t wait to sleep and rot. sink and rot.
posted by someone on March 30, 2009 @ 10:51 pm
i miss hearing your poetry over the phone.
posted by justin on March 31, 2009 @ 12:01 am
i remember telling someone that i don’t care.
posted by someone on April 1, 2009 @ 5:41 pm
expected. i bet you’re extremely happy with life.
posted by justin on April 1, 2009 @ 9:33 pm
colette, focus on school, go to a good college, and fuck a lot of people. problem solved.
if that fails, get a prescription for zoloft. or percocet, whichever works.