my books have finally grown lonely and afraid of me.
and it is just sad that the idea of all i have ever had cannot even begin to alter in accordance to my sad sad expectations. of how my glorious life is going to spiral its way down to nothingness as all others do, great and pathetic alike. i will grow older every second and i will never understand it, i will never trully believe it, and i suppose as everyone else does, i will deny the scars and tears in my skin because i only have to look at myself a few minutes everyday. my eyeshadow goes to my eyelids, and i know their crevices, i know where they curve. my lipstick goes along the peculiar lines that shape the lips and then colour up the bitten pieces of flesh. and i still never look at my face. how long can you sit infront of a mirror and really, really, look at yourself? not focusing on the charecteristics, that's just distracting, just looking at your expression.
how long can you look without flinching in disgust and turning your back and walking away?
if i stay alone, no one will be there to forgive my mistakes.
i have sincerely gotten bored of my own self.
what i am thinking;
humidity, green, beheading, toothpaste, cramp, you.
γιατί δεν μπορούσες να με σκοτώσεις και μετά να πεθάνεις και εσύ;