[[;osalkhf;laskdhf;lsAKDHf;lskadhf.]]
once there was girl who knew how to dance and she danced. she danced blues up your spine and red into your mouth. and when she danced you got spit on your shirt and shit on your legs and you didn't know how to get home. and she broke you in two because she knew how to. and sometimes you gotta do what you know how to do best. she wasn't me and i haven't met her yet. and she doesn't talk about zen or the himilayas and sometimes she does crack in the bathroom while her baby brother knocks on the door and tells her he has to take a shit. and she is whole for a crystalline moment.
you wore blue jeans and painted big faces on your t-shirts; wore your clothes through at the hinges, and i payed you too much mind. on mondays you were sullen, sallowed, and i saw your weekend on your shirt. on mondays, i forgot the life i'd lived the day prior because i can only be one girl at a time. you never liked the way i talked and i talked alot, i thought you liked it. and on tuesdays you were tired of me, and how i always write things down chronoligically. and when that girl met me, she took my wallet and she said, "such a boring wallet, i thought you were more interesting than this." and i was worried that she knew, but she wasn't smart she was just lucky. and she had majored in the stylized self.
my papa gave me dirty looks of love and broke me apart because he thought he hadn't built me right the first time. and my friends were everything i had, but i only could give them half of me. the other half was secret. i stomped bugs and picked flowers. i was always more for destruction than creation. and sometimes i fell to sleep and got so panicy that no theasarus in the world could save me from the constant use of the words i know best.
you are soft in my arms. and i squeeze you until you pop. and you get mad, why do you get mad? and i see you have been broken. and i can't tell if it's a bad thing anymore because i thought that love looked like bloody knuckles or cocaine girls breathing hard on picnic tables. and i remember girls who asked me for meth, and girls who still are stuck between my teeth, and girls who smell of sour and salt and fall asleep sometimes. and you can't find me. "she's up." and now i could be whole if i could cut transversal lines into my arms, if i could make the pattern on my knuckles. that you ground into your jeans. and who am i talking about anymore.
and if i could have lunch, i would. but i can't so i just hold you dear, hold deeply onto something sweet. and i think it's your hand but it might be you head. what is that feeling? tell me, if you would?
you wore blue jeans and painted big faces on your t-shirts; wore your clothes through at the hinges, and i payed you too much mind. on mondays you were sullen, sallowed, and i saw your weekend on your shirt. on mondays, i forgot the life i'd lived the day prior because i can only be one girl at a time. you never liked the way i talked and i talked alot, i thought you liked it. and on tuesdays you were tired of me, and how i always write things down chronoligically. and when that girl met me, she took my wallet and she said, "such a boring wallet, i thought you were more interesting than this." and i was worried that she knew, but she wasn't smart she was just lucky. and she had majored in the stylized self.
my papa gave me dirty looks of love and broke me apart because he thought he hadn't built me right the first time. and my friends were everything i had, but i only could give them half of me. the other half was secret. i stomped bugs and picked flowers. i was always more for destruction than creation. and sometimes i fell to sleep and got so panicy that no theasarus in the world could save me from the constant use of the words i know best.
you are soft in my arms. and i squeeze you until you pop. and you get mad, why do you get mad? and i see you have been broken. and i can't tell if it's a bad thing anymore because i thought that love looked like bloody knuckles or cocaine girls breathing hard on picnic tables. and i remember girls who asked me for meth, and girls who still are stuck between my teeth, and girls who smell of sour and salt and fall asleep sometimes. and you can't find me. "she's up." and now i could be whole if i could cut transversal lines into my arms, if i could make the pattern on my knuckles. that you ground into your jeans. and who am i talking about anymore.
and if i could have lunch, i would. but i can't so i just hold you dear, hold deeply onto something sweet. and i think it's your hand but it might be you head. what is that feeling? tell me, if you would?