My soul's on fire.
That's a blatant lie, my soul is listless and wasting and bored. It's tired and overrun and doesn't want to think anymore. My soul's in a glass along with hillbilly sangria made in two minutes with a strawberry, bad wine, and a fork.
My heart's a dead pile of rubbish that beats out of stubbornness rather than thriving, pulsing human life. It's knocking around my ribs like a bird that's run into one too many windows. Poetic dead pile of rubbish.
The shore doesn't do it, wine won't do it, pot doesn't do it, vicodin doesn't do it. Coke does it. Molly does it. I don't have those. So nothing will do it.
I can't paint, I can't draw, my hands can't do what my mind wants anymore. For all the observational skill I've acquired I've lost the creative leap. My twist. My elan. I'm a tired old has-been at 21, before I've even made it - I'm a has-been.
Shae knows it, why he doesn't bother with me when we're apart...until our bodies collide and he gets inside me as quick as he can, any way he can. Even has-beens can still look sparkly fresh on the outside. Feel humanly wet on the inside.
I wish I'd crackle and disintegrate the next time he's groping me. He might understand. Let me be. Realize I'm not the independent crazy bitch he thought he met. I'm still useless and depressed and the shy stupid fourteen year old girl who wouldn't let a boy so much as feel her panties. Panties is an awful word. Can't there be something other than panties, drawers, underwear?
What happens when I'm out of sangria? I'll invent a new word for my delicates.
That's a blatant lie, my soul is listless and wasting and bored. It's tired and overrun and doesn't want to think anymore. My soul's in a glass along with hillbilly sangria made in two minutes with a strawberry, bad wine, and a fork.
My heart's a dead pile of rubbish that beats out of stubbornness rather than thriving, pulsing human life. It's knocking around my ribs like a bird that's run into one too many windows. Poetic dead pile of rubbish.
The shore doesn't do it, wine won't do it, pot doesn't do it, vicodin doesn't do it. Coke does it. Molly does it. I don't have those. So nothing will do it.
I can't paint, I can't draw, my hands can't do what my mind wants anymore. For all the observational skill I've acquired I've lost the creative leap. My twist. My elan. I'm a tired old has-been at 21, before I've even made it - I'm a has-been.
Shae knows it, why he doesn't bother with me when we're apart...until our bodies collide and he gets inside me as quick as he can, any way he can. Even has-beens can still look sparkly fresh on the outside. Feel humanly wet on the inside.
I wish I'd crackle and disintegrate the next time he's groping me. He might understand. Let me be. Realize I'm not the independent crazy bitch he thought he met. I'm still useless and depressed and the shy stupid fourteen year old girl who wouldn't let a boy so much as feel her panties. Panties is an awful word. Can't there be something other than panties, drawers, underwear?
What happens when I'm out of sangria? I'll invent a new word for my delicates.
