he was dead, he was dead, with eyes blue and hopeless, lost on cheekbones defined with vapid young ones screaming and grabbing at and crying uselessly oh shut up why won't you.
and his hands were cracked with worry and his eyes burnt by fatigue and spite. and she growled at him let me go let me go. he never liked them vicious. it's hard to be him, it's hard to be him.
eyeliner drip, heavy mascara tears. nothing nothing. please, my dear, no one believes you anymore. so stop trying. beads, silver beads looped round once and suddenly it's "you're so beautiful, you're so frail, let me take you home and baby you"
drip drop you are the lie, don't you get it.
and grasped from the far corners of the mind, putting yourself on display is often easier than lying. the truth is not easily swallowed. pink hair and white lie intentions. and we are the children of other people, people who stopped existing when they were our age. smoke cigarettes and stare off in your own world you brittle little thing.
he was dead, he was dead, but he rose again and now screams and tells all with a vengeance unlike that of fables, knights and dragons colliding head to head. he is alive, he is whole, he is something of little value and worth but to the kids with lost hopes and dreams and hair as false as their personas, they scream with him and he can forget that he is beautiful. he can forget the curse.
you still can't decipher the ticking of his soul. he has a murmured heart beat like love notes in the dark, and still you can't write what you feel. your voice is silenced. you have nothing to do. boredom isn't safe for the young. you will do something you regret, stop stop stop or you will have to drag me with you.
