i am theirs, i am theirs, i am theirs.

his lips touched my neck and they were nothing like yours, they were nothing i had felt before, and in ways i longed for more, but my heart always tells the same ****** up story and i have been left with no open doors.

i am a she, i am she, i am she.

i am a work of art, but only in the sense that i'm one of those canvases with a bunch of pieces of trash stuck to it that is deemed as art.
i smile at the thought of oblivion more than i ever smiled at the thought of what it felt like kissing him.
i keep jars full of the wings of bugs because they're the only proof of a possibility of angels above and i keep my thoughts of you under the kitchen sink to have something to open up and remind me that there's hell when i've had too much to drink.

i am her, i am her, i am her.

he told me that he couldn't keep going because it would feel like abuse,
i never ever got that from you.
this concept of what i am, you can't even understand it.
i am nothing.
i am raw.
raw.
a raw slab of meat.
nobody knows how cook me, to what degree, they can never bite into me and really understand what i am.

i am mine.