i am not a pretty girl

today was a good day.
maybe.
i like watching my phone ring.
i collect missed calls like you collect lovers.
sorry, darling, i wasn't made to be broken (by you).

some day, everything i say will make sense.
that day i'll be dead and gone, and this'll just be the ramblings of a girl never really known by anyone.
not even herself.

i have the world's smallest violin sat on my shoulder.
and i play it fabulously.
yo.

my head feels safe in this place

home is where ever i can shut my eyes without flashes of nightmares.
i'm still searching.
johnny, i'm sorry. i promise i can't change.
a flamboyant emergency.
this attention whore put a bullet in her head on the ballroom floor.
tell me, how does it feel to be perfect?
to know that tomorrow will always be better?
to achieve everything you set your heart on?
to hear keys in front doors and not feel your heart skip one beat too many?

nothing scares me more than knowing i brought this on myself.
help.

fuck 'morality'

i'd rather laugh with the sinners than cry with the saints.

these are the days that start bad and finish worse

i'm okay right now.
okay. nice. fine.
i talk in a monotone so as not to give myself a way.
scared people will read between the things i choose to say.
survivor's taste the best food, and feel the most love -
we seem to appreciate what we've got when we brush past God.

i've become a parody of myself
and seem to leave my mark in third degree burns.
are you still here?
my heart's gone cold waiting for you to come home.

sorry, i couldn't stop the beat.