Pretty lights flashing, you're like a rave
Upside down faces, talking about the drugs they don't do
Lovers in the corner,
Hands being held
I'm backed against a cold wall with my pretty words and them alone wondering why I'm here
Counting all the people who really don't care

I can't make conversation
But I can make art you won't appreciate
I'll stay quiet
You'll hate me for it
You'll kiss me
And I'll hold your frozen hand
It's not love
But your body keeps me warm

If I died my hair
Could we pretend it isn't me
I bleached my hair
Let's bleach the voices in my ****** up head
Fleeting memories, so what if they're dead

Maybe I do this
To escape.

I'm up to 35.
35 despaired pages, each turned with a painfully waning chance of happiness.
I weep for this diary
The crisp-white pages are darker than dark, tattooed with pain
Written in ink, but meant in blood.
(I'm starting to wonder if I have any left in my veins)