XX

When it happens, because it most certainly will, over and over again, put on some lipstick, keep your broken pieces together, and never look back.

Liz Taylor had it right. Put on some lipstick, pour yourself a drink, and pull yourself together.

Please

Please.
Let me, let me, let me,
let me, get what I want.

So, Official.

I think I really am dead inside. There's nothing. And since there's nothing, I don't know how I feel about this new affirmation. Meh.

The xx

The xx’s music is like the match to my heartbeat. Their clean sound. Every song, the bass pounds, guitar strums, calculated fades, rhythms, and breaths sound like a body’s own chemistry reacting, sometimes with another, most times. It’s beautiful.

Tea

When the world goes to shit,
make some hot tea.

Down

All I can think about, is
blood.

Flowing,
broken skin.

Self cut, prepare for the
dark flood.

My own blank stares.

Dry eyes, that glaze emptiness
and somebody cold,
who really doesn't care.

I wish I were dead.

Never awoken from slumber,
in the sanctuary, of my
warm, protective, bed.

Blood spill, a catharsis
I can control.
A direct relief, a life cheat,
to my, already dead soul.

Let it out, I'm trying.
Always had bad luck,
no satisfying.

Done.