I can taste the ******* drips, an IV of memories, a life line
I can feel my nose bleeding, I begin to laugh, why me?
Is it getting hard to explain to your parents what you did last night? Do you hold back? Do they even care?
Mine don't seem to give a ****
My mother asked me why there's black circles around my eyes, asked why I seem to be on edge, why I'm never home
A lot of questions
I don't like to say much, I'd rather just do
I'm more of a slap you across the face kind of girl, or a dance away from the smell of hate kind of life enthusiast
Sometimes I wish I cared
Most days I'm glad I don't