and fake and all that's in between
you say that I'm not capable of any real feelings, that I'm fake and filled with fickle fortune.
maybe that's in my head, but so is everything else, and blogs and lines of words and mixed emotions, run on sentences with no false intentions, I assure you
all I dream of is you, and the beauty and lies that form beneath me like vines of cruelty, of shame. I feel dirty and wrong and angry with myself if I don't form the exact words in my head and unfurling feelings of sickness and woe and horror, oh how dramatic I am when I'm running on empty and lack of sleep, emotions that are from the core, how am I so indifferent I don't know I don't know
but maybe you so deserved that, really really you did you did.
