Jul 2014
Cigarette to her cherry chap stick coated lips again.
She keeps on smoking them saying she doesn't care if she dies, yet she's discreetly afraid of death.
She knows she should probably get off her *** and get a job, but she'd rather listen to the same song over and over and day dream about ******
scenarios.
She'd rather stay up late at night writing and wake up at 3, majority of her day already wasted. Downing coffee and telling herself that she'd wake up
early one day to greet the sun and admire it's beauty but reality devoured her, and she's under her sheets sleeping with her breast pressed against
her cream colored silk sheets.
She fell asleep watching asmr videos, too much of a baby to try astral projection and her window is wide open, bugs with wings flying in her room but yet she doesn't care, she likes the feeling of the cold wind on her legs.
Oh, how she wishes she were in a field somewhere, holding hands with another male or a female that loves her back as much as she loves them. She wishes that whoever loves her would lift up her skirt and lick their fingers after they venture down her legs and inside the blooming flower so many individuals have been trying to deflower.
Rolling naked in the grass, smiling, laughing.
She wants to look deep into someones eyes, not uttering a word, just in silence smiling. She wants to tuck their hair behind their ear, she wants to feel the heat of another person up against her, or the simple pads of anothers fingers cupping her breast. She longs for someone to touch her, yet she's
afraid of being touched. She's afraid of men, she's afraid of many things.
Her picky self thinks she see's the good in people yet they expose their true
colors she were too blind to see. She's so naive. Letting her thoughts unravel her like a Christmas ribbon, placing acid tabs under her tongue, smoking more ****, and drinking too much.
Anything to numb the fact that the ones she desire don't desire her, and the ones that want her she acknowledges, but simply picks up with the pile of clothes on her floor and shoves them in her drawers she keeps telling herself that she'd sort out.
An unorganized, mess.
Her room, her life. Everything.
She keeps on smoking them saying she doesn't care if she dies, yet she's discreetly afraid of death.
She knows she should probably get off her *** and get a job, but she'd rather listen to the same song over and over and day dream about ******
scenarios.
She'd rather stay up late at night writing and wake up at 3, majority of her day already wasted. Downing coffee and telling herself that she'd wake up
early one day to greet the sun and admire it's beauty but reality devoured her, and she's under her sheets sleeping with her breast pressed against
her cream colored silk sheets.
She fell asleep watching asmr videos, too much of a baby to try astral projection and her window is wide open, bugs with wings flying in her room but yet she doesn't care, she likes the feeling of the cold wind on her legs.
Oh, how she wishes she were in a field somewhere, holding hands with another male or a female that loves her back as much as she loves them. She wishes that whoever loves her would lift up her skirt and lick their fingers after they venture down her legs and inside the blooming flower so many individuals have been trying to deflower.
Rolling naked in the grass, smiling, laughing.
She wants to look deep into someones eyes, not uttering a word, just in silence smiling. She wants to tuck their hair behind their ear, she wants to feel the heat of another person up against her, or the simple pads of anothers fingers cupping her breast. She longs for someone to touch her, yet she's
afraid of being touched. She's afraid of men, she's afraid of many things.
Her picky self thinks she see's the good in people yet they expose their true
colors she were too blind to see. She's so naive. Letting her thoughts unravel her like a Christmas ribbon, placing acid tabs under her tongue, smoking more ****, and drinking too much.
Anything to numb the fact that the ones she desire don't desire her, and the ones that want her she acknowledges, but simply picks up with the pile of clothes on her floor and shoves them in her drawers she keeps telling herself that she'd sort out.
An unorganized, mess.
Her room, her life. Everything.
