stuffs hidden in my journal?
I want to disappear to wherever you are and make it stick. I want to be the fly on the wall in your life, looking through biased and artless eyes. It's a kind of love that's more about me and less about you.
She's like golden cancer or grinning rats, everything you love and hate. Made of bones and skin and quarters, change and changing. She's in every nook and cranny of you, and you don't even have a chance. She'll weigh you down and you'll enjoy every minute. She's in every way a part of you, so cut her out a bleed to death.
She wishes she could lay back and count the stars. She stares at her ceiling and counts the cracks instead.
"It's a cold world," he says. "We don't have time for dreams."
"We could always slow down," she protests.
"Slow down and get left behind," he says and it's tired and weary with the weight of truth.
"It was just a suggestion." They don't speak of it again.
If what goes around comes around,
If I say "I love you"
Shouldn't you say it back?
And if I give you a gift
Shouldn't you return it?
I'm selfish like that
And I guess karma works too slow.
She starts all of her notebooks backwards because she knows that if she begins from the front, they will never be full. She hasn't been good with beginnings but she's even worse with endings. She thinks about it while walking through her empty house, sliding in her socks on the shiny hardwood floor. She can't tell whether moving away is an ending or a beginning, so she hopes, since she can't classify it, that it won't be bad at all. In reality though, it will probably just be twice as worse. But right now, at three in the morning, in a room with no furniture and everyone else asleep, she can't even picture reality.
They say they want to be remembered for the stars in their eyes. I say forget that. I want to go out and be forgotten, even when all the lights are on. You don't think of me like I think of you and I'm sitting here missing who you used to (want to) be. I'd freeze you and keep you close if I could. You'd melt in my arms and maybe it would end the way it started. Or maybe you would drain away. I'm not sure which I would like more. I don't even need to dream; I close my eyes and I'm already thinking of you.
I've been feeling kind of writer's block-y lately so you know you want to let me write you an original something. :D? :D :D :D?
Also, TRUE BLOOD. HOW COULD YOU? >:( >:( >:( He was my favorite. D: D: D:
She's like golden cancer or grinning rats, everything you love and hate. Made of bones and skin and quarters, change and changing. She's in every nook and cranny of you, and you don't even have a chance. She'll weigh you down and you'll enjoy every minute. She's in every way a part of you, so cut her out a bleed to death.
She wishes she could lay back and count the stars. She stares at her ceiling and counts the cracks instead.
"It's a cold world," he says. "We don't have time for dreams."
"We could always slow down," she protests.
"Slow down and get left behind," he says and it's tired and weary with the weight of truth.
"It was just a suggestion." They don't speak of it again.
If what goes around comes around,
If I say "I love you"
Shouldn't you say it back?
And if I give you a gift
Shouldn't you return it?
I'm selfish like that
And I guess karma works too slow.
She starts all of her notebooks backwards because she knows that if she begins from the front, they will never be full. She hasn't been good with beginnings but she's even worse with endings. She thinks about it while walking through her empty house, sliding in her socks on the shiny hardwood floor. She can't tell whether moving away is an ending or a beginning, so she hopes, since she can't classify it, that it won't be bad at all. In reality though, it will probably just be twice as worse. But right now, at three in the morning, in a room with no furniture and everyone else asleep, she can't even picture reality.
They say they want to be remembered for the stars in their eyes. I say forget that. I want to go out and be forgotten, even when all the lights are on. You don't think of me like I think of you and I'm sitting here missing who you used to (want to) be. I'd freeze you and keep you close if I could. You'd melt in my arms and maybe it would end the way it started. Or maybe you would drain away. I'm not sure which I would like more. I don't even need to dream; I close my eyes and I'm already thinking of you.
I've been feeling kind of writer's block-y lately so you know you want to let me write you an original something. :D? :D :D :D?
Also, TRUE BLOOD. HOW COULD YOU? >:( >:( >:( He was my favorite. D: D: D: