I wear my hair in a braid, slung around my neck, over my shoulder. I have a style. Eat that. I can’t airbrush my flaws forever. Swallow me or choke. Either way I’m going to get into you.
I’d mix my paint with my tears. That’d make a really faithful representation for the demise of my world, the crashing hopes and the nothings to replace it.
I’ll have to console myself in hope that things will change, the assurance that I’m not done yet…I haven’t even started. When I do, the world will be my coin, for me to flip either way I like. Thanks for being the dumb idiots for me to watch waste away – you taught me much about what not to become. If I go without cutting my mark in this life, then I will fucking sue God.