Let's see how fake you can be Don't get me wrong It's funny that you're trying You're trying to be my friend Why? Why be my friend? Because all yours realized that you're horrible Oh, that ***** Oh, you didn't think I didn't know Did you? You didn't break our friendship fully But you can continue playing that fake innocent person Continue thinking that we are good Just know, we aren't I am just showing the world Showing the world my tolerance My tolerance for filth.
Recently, I was given a huge challenge and I have a huge tolerance now thanks to this challenge
I first saw my grandma knitting when I was five. Wool yarn flowing through her fingers, As if it was a fairy tale by the brothers Grimm. Magic was happening, giving birth to another sweater, or another scarf, or a dress I was probably going to wear.
I first saw a fashion magazine at the age of eight. It was full of clothes, full of bright, extravagant colours, I was amazed by this variety of art it kept inside, a little girl facing her nature, her passion, her desire.
I was twelve when I first visited Germany & realised that fashion had never been this far from people. Oaf boots and cerulean sweaters I was seeing everywhere As a complete outsider, an offspring of another world.
It was years after that I understood. Clothes are what we see & beauty is what we cherish, But, if it is filth that you carry on the inside, It can never be covered by a little black dress.
i still taste your sticky sweet nectar on my lips from the time you released your seed onto my perfect *******, then you traced your fingertips onto my precious flower and tasted my sweet honey, watching it drip from your fingertips as you plastered your mark into my sweet flower-- my breathing becoming shallow from the sensations, thoughts scattered , close to the threshold before a beautiful release of ecstasy . A perfect deflowering carved into my memory.
People are utterly filthy. Rags besmirched black and undertone red in blood, and ****, and tears, and thrown up alcohol bought cheaper than a ***** on Seventh. Oh, tell me about it. I saw a dead person once. Grime under fingernails and teeth carved in gingivitis-- filth of a body really; but still I cry for this begotten soul until my own hands grow disheveled in the hue of sobbing women. Women are always sobbing. My good friend with fishnet tights cries and cries when the bottle breaks and glass becomes embedded in those brown fingertips of hers. What is worse? The stench of rotting flesh mixed with Persian White dripping from a needle three years defective, or the scent of sobbing women soaked lily-livered in sweat. With an honest tongue, politely I exclaim: I’d rather sit with the flesh of the dead man whose filth is rotting away with the mist of dawn, then the crying pupils of thou who breathe in white wind from the heavens and exhale clouds coated thick in a thousand vile songs.