Thinking. And thinking.
It's always about a number of things,
My mind never likes only one topic
Mostly because I get bored easy.

And I think, I'm not interested in boys.
I'm interested in men.
Not this annoying, ball-less ******* that hasn't learned a thing.
Maybe that's why I'm forever in love with Tom Hiddleston.

And I think, my body is wierd.
Made of broken pieces,
Glued together by angel spit.
(I guess it's been battered, as my bones are falling apart as we speak.)

And I think, I'm done with friendship.
All it seems to do is bring me woe.
You all are now acquaintances,
Far enough away that you can't shoot me.

And I finally think, I'm happy.
Even with the **** scars and broken heart,
I like the words I speak and how they power through a room.
I love each morning, a new oppurtunity for adventure.