10月 11, 2011

point of view.

I waste my youth on sour apple lollipops and vodka. This point of view you bought me remains on the dusty floor. You can mold me, break me, and make me hollow. You can even lick the cocaine from my cold, dead fingers and imagine beauty queens with shiny blond hair (but I don't have shiny blond hair). Time of month; you ignore the warning labels. The ballerinas dance like malfunction machines. I only become an idealist in this world and you take my hand to follow where the rosses lead us ---- abandoned garden.

You can dig up the inside of my body. You can also put out my flame ---- steal what's important. If you see lady bugs running my heart, can you just let them be? This is no make-up body, I swear; it's my organs that sing nothing but broken melodies. If I get sick out of the blue, can you tell the believers not to bother to save me a seat?

This point of view you bought me remains on the dusty floor. You can mold me, break me, and make me hollow. You can even lick the cocaine from my cold, dead fingers and imagine beauty queens wearing crowns with glitter (but I don't wear anyone's crown).

I was carved perfectly, you know. The dress did fit me like a glove; your stains there as a lasting memory. You know what, sir? You can put on your own creation. I'm sure pink is your colour. It makes your skin glow.

It really does.