Lake Michigan sand rests within my bones;
it slows the timing of my heart
and scratches the vowels
budding on my wet tongue.

I imagine waiting for you
on a bench of ghosts
with coffee and binoculars,
observing the rush of continuous
flutter as seagulls settle
and then unsettle, as indecisive
as the mottled lake.

The afternoon light is brisk,
pulls my breath like a buoy chain--
     my heart sounds like it's underwater,
     its beats drive the tide
     that draws you, like an undertow, to me.

I wear pajamas
when I go to bed,
one button-up shirt
and drawstring pants
both the color of
light blue sky
they're a gift
from my Mom.
I feel complete
wearing them,
I'm ready to
fall asleep.
It's rare in this world
to ever feel so confident.
When I put on these pajamas
I'm a gentleman practicing
the art of
a good night's sleep,
call me Aaron no more,
only Mr. Brown for now on.

An old, frail woman sits in rocking chair.
Rocking slowly, gently, back and forth.
The floorboards beneath her creek softly.
She is dressed in black.
Hair held back with two hair clasps.

A pouch dangles from her arm.
A drawstring wrapped around her wrinkled wrist.

There is a rustle heard nearby.
A small girl appears.
Dress in white dress, with small imprints of daisies on it.
Hair tied into a braid.
Timidly she inches over to the woman.

The woman unravels the drawstring from her wrist.
She opens the pouch, and five small stone fall into her lap.

Each stone is unique in its own way.
Different sizes, shapes and textures.

The little girl is face to face with the woman.
She hands her each stone carefully, and with great care. She holds the stone and with each stone she tells her wish for the little girl

The first stone with the inscription STRENGHT.
My wish is that you have the strength to endure the past, the present, the future. To fight all the evil and conquer it in the name of good.

Next comes CREATE
My wish is for you to create memories. Some of them good and some of them bad. To even life out. And that each bad memory you create only equals more memories that are good.

Then DREAM
My wish is that your dreams come true in your life, as well as the people around you.
Next MAGIC
My wish is that your days been filled with magic, both unreal and real. Both created by you, and created by other people around you.

Finally WISH
My wish is that these wishes as well as many others to come your way. Also, that each wish is better then the last one.

The little girl admires the stones.
The woman opens the pouch and picks each stone one at a time, and places them in the pouch.
The woman hands the pouch to the little girl and says “For safe keeping”

The little girl smiles and runs out the door.
Giggles are heard.
The woman continues to rock.

Drawstring linen pants,
Unisex from a women's catalogue.
Dark green shirt, tomboy approved.
Enough makeup to hide my faults.
Pink heart earrings, and a silver cross in the 3rd hole.
A silver cross, trans emblem and a silver heart engraved Laura, my true identity, together on a black bead chain.
Silver Lesbian insignia ring with my wedding band on top.
A black 1st finger ring etched with the Lord's prayer.
2 bracelets, one orange one turquoise to match a turquoise hat and dark glasses.
A couple of mists of Acqua di Gioia.
Women's turquoise/orange runners,
And a Victoria's secret backpack.

I didn't really think about the details until evening,
All I knew is I felt comfortable today.
I even went to Kohl's department store alone and browsed, and felt a confidence I'd rarely felt in the past.

Is this how some people feel every day I wonder?
I was so grateful for just today, just one day.
Today I was me

by Lj Mark 2015

Presumably the next big thing will be soles — socks with holes. Or maybe zits — pants with zips.

It’s made me wonder what else is ahead for us this season, so I headed to the mall to find out.

Topshop proclaims the return of triple denim (noooo!), the corset and coats worn as dresses. The latter should be worn undone to the waist and half falling off in order to “create a cold-shoulder silhouette”. Doesn’t make such sense during a Melbourne winter, I must say.

Topshop also has a very worrying item called a “monochrome gingham flute tie sleeve top”, which looks to me very much like a chequered table napkin worn backwards with ribbons at the elbows keeping the sleeves on. I’ll pass on that one.

Over at H&M;, winter’s “new mood” is all about “sustainable style” containing recycled materials. That means a simple flannel top is reborn as “conscious fashion” and a blue worker-style singlet becomes a “lyocell vest top”.

What would they call hi-vis? Apparently, the fash pack call it “haute reflecture”. Yes, really.

Most concerning is a shirt with “trumpet sleeves” so wide they’d need a separate seat at a restaurant. Even then they would end up dipping into the dinner of the person sitting at the next table. It may help you work out what to order, but it’s not likely to win you any friends.

At Zara it’s all about a “limited edition ballet dress” that will look perfect under a “moto jacket” Did they forget the r? Or are they too cool for correct spelling?

There is also something very strange called “over-the-knee high-heel sock boots”, which are $100. Give them to someone you loathe this Easter.

Zara also wants us to wear “Mum-fit jeans with side stripes”, which will no doubt just draw more unwelcome attention to the dreaded maternal hips. Who needs that?

They also have a velvet sack-style dress with a drawstring at the mid-thigh. It’s the style that doesn’t discriminate — it’s guaranteed to look unflattering on everyone.

So what other trends should we be running away from this season? Fashion insiders tell me “street-chic utilitarianism” is all the rage. That seems to involve wearing a flak jacket 10 sizes too big in a rotting-flesh colour paired with floral leggings with built-in shoes.

There’s also “new shirting”, which looks to me like the same thing as “old shirting” but has the added disadvantage of being just about to fall off your shoulders at the most inopportune time.

Trust me, you don’t need that and you don’t need an ironic-slogan T-shirt that tells the world “This was not a gift” or “This is a white T-shirt”.

I am also quite interested to know that “bra out” is apparently a trend and I wonder if that means I should stop tucking my daggy mum-bra straps into my tops.

Now, as someone who spent most of Wednesday this week at work with a large shop store label hanging out of the back of my skirt, I’m obviously not a huge fashionista.

But even I can see that never before has there been such a gap between clothes the fashion-conscious labels are promoting and everyday pieces we actually want to wear. You know, clothes that are well priced, well made, last more than a few seasons and aren’t made by five-year-old Bangladeshi orphans.

THERE’S no doubt something very weird is going on when there’s a waiting list for Yves Saint Laurent’s $10,000 jewelled boots and jewellery made of real succulents is being tipped as the next big thing. But really, who wants to have to remember to water their earrings?

Wandering around Zara this week (from where I bought the $89 skirt I forgot to take the label off), I was interested to see sale racks packed with off-the-shoulder tops, summer denim and lots of body suits. When are they going to learn women don’t want press studs up their privates?

I know that in fashion everything new is old anyway and that’s what really concerns me.

I’ve been around long enough to remember all the best worst fashion disasters such as pooh-catcher pants, velour tracksuits, trucker hats and platform sneakers.

Frankly, there are some items that don’t deserve to be wheeled out again. They include leg warmers — because your ankles don’t get cold when you work out, do they? And let’s not revisit male crop tops, because a hairy muffin top is something we don’t need to see.

Back to jindows. Just because Topshop tells us they’re “globally trending in the denim space”, it doesn’t mean you need a pair.

Remember. You didn’t need jeggings, coatigans, skorts or flatforms. And you sure as hell don’t need jindows.Read more at:http://www.marieaustralia.com/cocktail-dresses | www.marieaustralia.com/bridesmaid-dresses

For as long as I can remember, I’ve been writing
Dialogue for languages that I don’t speak.
Transcribing twisted writings of de-aligning dialects.
I’ve torn everything out of context,
Inspected it against the light,
Held it there until it burned from over exposure,
Then stitched its singed edges back into a niche where
It never seemed to fit quite right,
But close enough to be
Misconstrued as almost coherent.
And this confusion became the format for my daily
Step-by-step instruction manual.
          Rip.
          Look.
          Burn.
    ­      Stitch.
          Repeat.
For a while I found comfort behind
The makeshift ideas pieced together
With television taglines and childhood nursery rhymes.
I could count the number of times
That I’ve been caught
Slipping in certain names
Of certain people and places
That I swore to forget
On paper-cut fingers wrapped in band-aids
Like they’re next springs new fashion,
And it’s a dismal ratio
When compared to how often I get away with it.
I get away with ******
And it’s funny
How easy it is to hide words within words.
And I fall further in line,
          Repeat.
          Rip.
          Look.
    ­      Burn.
          Stitch.
I fall further in rank-and-file,
          Repeat.
Yesterdays.
          Rip.
A­ bloodline.
          Look.
The same.
          Burn.
The smell of smoke.
          Stitch.
Through the eye of a needle.
          Repeat.
I begin to confuse tomorrows with yesterdays.
          Rip.
My fingertips can testify that paper and razors share a bloodline.
          Look.
I can’t see a change, I’ve rearranged every alphabet and they all seem the same.
          Burn.
I think I’ve grown accustomed to the smell of smoke.
          Stitch.
I stop denying that I’m fitting my whole lifeline through the eye of a needle.

As daylight shines bright through cracked blinds
I realize that, now,
Instead of counting subliminal messages
I’ve been keeping a tally of every time I blink
So that I’m aware of each moment I miss while
Hiding behind blackened eyelids,
And I am drowning in debt.
So I pull tight the drawstring on the window shades
And let my skin soak up the sun
I notice that where the mountains meet the sky
Seems so much brighter than it’s described in the words
That are now scattered across my floor.
But like exes,
Old habits have a tendency
To call you beckoning back
When you finally find breath again.
I found breath again,
But just as quickly staggered in reverse to
The familiar feeling of paper
And my hands do what they’ve been trained to.
          Repeat.
          Rip.
          Look.
      ­    Burn.
          Stitch.
But my eyes are fixed on the horizon,
They start setting with the sun.

          Repeat.
I begin…
          Rip.
My fingertips…
          Look.
I can’t…
          Burn.
I think…
          Stitch.
I stop.

Pain is beauty:
The thick, swollen red line
Runs jagged between my hip-bones
To right beneath my belly button:
Peeking out from under my
Drawstring pants
As my figure wavers
In the fogged bathroom mirror reflection:

Beauty masks pain.
I focus on a freckle above my midriff
While my stomach heaves in and out-
A testament that I'm still Here.

Life is concealment
Of all the run ins with death
That we are too humble to
Praise
With the same unabashed glory
That we attribute to the very
God- whose own son's hands
Were marred with the scars
Of a self righteousness
That isn't felt in hospital recovery rooms.

Sensations are transitory-
Leaving subtle marks upon our fragile
Bodies,
A reminder
That death can never be beaten;

I trace my fingers across
The rigged Scar- but I don't feel
Anything-
I don't feel the missing faulty pieces
Of my body,
Carefully extracted like a childhood
Game of Operation:
They didn't belong there, anymore.

Beauty has fallen
(Down from the right hand of god)
Into the arms of modern medicine,
Adorned with sickly sweet lilies
And medals of honor
Pinned upon the breast
Of anyone tragic enough
To experience
Life
Without the security
Of a timely exit.

I am whole because my experiences
Are hidden beneath a functioning
Exterior:
My marred flesh burns against
The heavy fabric draped over
Last summer.

Experience is merely a fallacy
For survival:
My raised skin outlines
A tragedy too human
To pray about over the dinner table.

Listen now, and listen well, Son.
Anything worth doing is difficult to get done.
Saying you are Brave is a fine thing to say,
But Courage can't wait for tomorrow, it starts today!
I know your scared, it's easy to tell
From the way you cry and way that you yell.
Control your fear, don't ignore it, and it may serve you well.

Wait.  Let's slow down.  Walk toward the deep again.
At three feet deep the water is up to your chin.
So, more shallow than that is a safe place to play
Enjoy the water, the cool chlorinated spray
And if you get in trouble I'll be there in a flash
To fish you right out and rescue your ...

...Your shorts are slipping down.  
Let me retie your drawstring.  There.  That's better...

Face your fear.  Learn to swim, and you'll be having fun.
Just remember your sunscreen 'cause you roast in the sun.
Now, let's play a game.  There. What do you think?
I'm glad you're finally having fun, but it's time to go.  You're turning pink.

I had my happy coloured marbles,
All in a drawstring bag
I even had my wits about me
When they all said I was mad

I've since lost my marbles,
My wit's been licked it seems
I'm still searching for them
While you analyze my dreams

Now they call me mellow yellow
Since that slick spark has dimmed
No longer a manic madman
Calmed by my tonic and gin

Why does there always seem to be
An exchange, creativity for conformity
A need for insanity to be confined to brevity
And quickly quelled by righteous authority?

Sometimes I think maybe the world needs more empathy. So I buy some
ice cream, try to imagine what it’d be like to be so cool
I’m dripping sweet, so sugary that I make people’s teeth hurt when they smile.
At first I want to be a big sundae with hot fudge
arteries and the candied-cherry heart no one really chews up.
Then I decide I’d better get two scoops of fat-free bubblegum,
because nobody likes that junk and it must get awful freezer burnt
waiting for someone to notice it behind the chocolate chip. I dress it up nice
in a waffle-cone exoskeleton so I can get a good hold on it, but it looks strange:
two violent colored plops like a flamingo and a blue parrot are mushed  
in a khaki tuxedo, snazzed with ice crystals and sprinkle bling. Tastes weird
too, fluorescent and sour because someone made it that way
by using artificial sweetener instead of the real stuff. My lips pucker
like a drawstring bag tugging shut: I've had a taste
but it's too hard to swallow. Just as I begin my bubblegum death
march to the garbage some kid whizzes by, abstract blob
of bone-dry hands and sharp teeth glinting: whiter than a deep freezer frost and dentist-approved, spiraling my cone into a lethal nose dive.
Wafer tip fractures on asphalt and splatters: open-cone
surgery. I watch sidewalk cracks ooze neon blood
as I try to wipe my fingers clean on denim pockets.
But even when the ice cream is gone my hands are still sticky.

The children of inconsequence
Ah to be so carefree
Spontaneity running through their blood
as quickly as the dollar and dime alcohol
that they consume nightly.

The children of inconsequence
They do not run from their shadows –
Their shadows run from them
Delighting in the light
Of their fluorescent, radioactive spirit.

The children
Breathing in the thick vanilla air
Running to who knows where
With two feet on the ground
They never stop moving.

Inconsequence
They need no belts
They will wear dresses
And drawstring flannel pants
They know they will not fall.

me,
opening a brown drawstring bag and emptying
what looks like my mail onto the table
you sit and quietly examine the addresses, the contents
the stamps
as for sounds, the quiet rustle of paper
then of course
you put your reading glasses on
they're a soft brown
never intimidating, unlike you
you are an experience
you take a look at the contents of my head right now

“You smell like you took a bath in whiskey.”

Josie wrinkled her nose.  Her words fell upon the shaded figure slumped against her doorway, silhouetted by a gas lamp across the street.  It was a familiar form; Josie couldn’t exactly remember the last time it had occupied the space.  

“It’s scotch, Josephine.”  
      
     The sentence bubbled out of the shadowed man.  He remained glued to the wooden frame, and Josie pondered closing the door on both him, and the night.  Eventually, the man straightened himself, and brushed off the wrinkled grey suit that hung loosely about him.  He performed a clumsy half-bow and stumbled past Josie into the living room, where he unfurled on the couch.  Josie grabbed some matches and lit the candles above the fireplace to mask the smell of liquor that had begun to fill the room.  

        “I have to ask, what brings you here?”  Josie said dryly, keeping a hand on the mantle, as she turned to face the undesired guest.  The silent void that followed her words was lifted by the man chuckling and sitting upright, bent forward with his elbows on his knees.

“Well, I was in the area, and to be truthfully honest the night’s growing old and I haven't had nearly enough to drink.  Unfortunately, as it were, I seemed to have spent the last of my coin.”

She waited for the man to continue, but he just stared sheepishly at her; She was not fully convinced that she wasn’t still asleep in her room upstairs.

“You picked the wrong home to come to.”

Josie muttered coldly and a small shudder coursed through her abdomen.  She wrapped her arms across her breast, and realized she was still in her silk nightgown.

“It was worth a shot.  Good ****.”

     The man grinned as he acquiesced her words, flashing ivory teeth which contrasted with the dark stubble of his beard.  He ran his hands through his slicked back hair before he locked them behind his head, then gave Josie a quick scan that made her shiver again.  

“So how’ve you been livin’ Josie?  It’s been quite some time.”  The man crooned.

Josie rotated so she wouldn’t have to look at him.  She wished she hadn’t answered the knock on her door.  

“I’ve been living.”  

She attempted to mask the strain it put on her to say the words.  

Josie stood there, holding herself, when a hand gripped her upper arm—she hadn’t heard him move from the couch.  The man whirled her around and grasped both arms tightly.  Josie tried to twist free but it felt as if she was held by two iron vises.  

He bent downwards and shoved his lips onto hers; the taste compared to taking a swig from a bottle and almost triggered Josie to gag. She didn’t have a perception of how much time passed before she was able to breathe again.

“Just like old times, huh Josi—”

She left a red imprint of her palm on his right cheek; the man stumbled backwards with his face held in his hands.  It was etched with confusion mixed with disbelief.

“Leave.”

It was an order.  Josie numbly walked over to the door and opened it in silence.  The man paused and seemed to contemplate whether or not he would obey the directive, then dropped his hands to his sides and trudged across the cream colored carpet. She kept her eyes fixed on the floor as he passed through the open frame with clenched fists hidden in his pockets.

Josie made to close the door, but was halted by a sudden urge.  She ran to her purse and fumbled inside, then withdrew her hand holding a small drawstring bag of change.  Josie stepped into the flickering spotlight of the gas-lamp and heaved the coins at the man; she aimed for the small of his back.  

“Buy yourself something better tasting next time.”  Josie hollered, then crept inside and shut the door.

I tore a small piece of star-lit sky,
right from a summers night.
I turned it into a drawstring bag
to hold these last things tight.
I gathered up sunlit memories
of much more happy times,
colored with both our smiles,
They were from the time when you were mine.
I placed the memories in the bag,
and thought for just a moment.
Of silent cuddles and forehead kisses,
and all the days when we weren't broken.
I placed those thoughts next to the memories,
in my stary bag.
As I sang the song you'd sung to me,
whenever I was sad.
As my voice carried out the words,
Of "you'll be in my heart".
I dropped them a little bit recklessly,
and they almost fell apart.
I took those precious moments of love,
And with them added one last thing in there.
A little piece of notebook paper,
marked with the promises we'd shared.
Our life, our plans, and dreams of family.
The future that we had planned.
All gathered up together now
in that stary bag.
I took it to the beach last night.
just before sunrise,
I prepared to do what I'd never done,
Tears began to fill my eyes.
And then right before I let it go
into the oceans rush,
I added one last simple kiss,
to the bag that held the
                                             last
           ­                             of
                                                us.

a flutter of butterfly's wings,
of soft gray skies.
hours that mattered and
moments that didn't.

it was all a matter of time,
she said,
of swinging ropes and pain that cut too deep
(and empty calories that couldn't)
the way the words grazed my throat
in an empty cry for help
black lips and cold smiles and
the reminder that
this is your life, what are you still living for?
(if anything at all)
it was fear, night after night after
helpless night
unanswered worry that went unsaid
like a cry in the dark
i stumbled around, tugged at the ropes
holding the drawstring doors together and begged for a way in
a shot in the dark against a litany of
cruel words that taunted and burned hot
against already singed skin

night after night after
helpless night

like clockwork,
routine becomes necessary:
the way the farmers created
daylight savings to strengthen their
crop rotation and sow the fields the way they
pleased, i searched and looked and
waited for reason.
waited for the impending realization so i
wouldn't have to discover it myself

and god was i scared.
we always seemed to be scared back then,
afraid of the monsters we created
so we wouldnt have to run ourselves
up the walls.
afraid of parents and test scores and the
fruit guy on the corner
whose gaze always lingered too long.
a series of firsts upon
a foundation of lasts.
the secrets exchanged,
the mouths held wide open,
the pills on the bathroom floor that glowed
invitingly.

i was helpless to the power it held.
negatives balanced upon negatives and
torn in two, jagged along the seams.
both of us screaming in silent voices
from places that couldn't produce words.
the hug i gave you the day
after it happened
(for the first time
or the second
or maybe the third)

the nights i cried.
the nights you cried.
the nights you called me and i had to hold
the phone far enough from my ear that your
voice only held a range of tangible static.
the bitter
the hurt
the wounded
the way you were all of them and
none of them, both at once.
the screams.
the times i didn't pick up.
the times i should have.
the times you forgave me and
the times i forgave you even when there was
nothing to forgive.
the thanks you always bid to me.
the goodbyes i always said with silent hope
that another hello would live to see
the light of day.

night after night after
helpless night.
susceptible to the
power it held.

there's 3 varieties of rock
scouted from the hillside
at the foot of the launchpad.

I LOAD UP ANGER,
IN ALL OF ITS FROZEN AND FIERY SHARPNESS
WEIGHING DOWN THE MECHANISM
WITH ALL OF MY EXPECTATIONS
TO THROW AT THESE UNFEELING WALLS

to simmer and smoulder
before impact
like a whispered promise.

(i reach for silence)
(the underhandedness catching my fingers)
(drawing blood over the drawstring)
(sending another part of me in its flightpath)

it never reaches the sky
you can't fire a non-feeling
as much as we wish we could.

so-i-decide-to-settle-down-
in-this-trebuchet-
to-see-if-­throwing-myself-headlong-
will-let-me-break-through-or-break-me-
­
The castle walls remain up, the remains of a young man were recently disposed of by the guards, cause of death?  
Trying too hard.

She is going.
I imagine her on the plane, mind brimming with possibilities and anxieties
She’s probably wearing those hippy pants with the beaded drawstring and the red elephant print
I know she’s typing away on her laptop, chronicling her unprecedented adventure

She is doing.
Everything we say we’ll do on late nights with that sense of invincible potential
She overcame the lingering doubt, the pessimistic thoughts that loiter in our minds
and trash our belief in possibility

She is being.
She is living.
She is trying to be more than just a name scrawled in the universe’s book, an afterthought.
She will be a page, a chapter.
She will do more, she will be more, she is more.

around this time last year
i lost myself
somewhere in the snow outside
there are pieces of me, im sure

and my tears probably still lie
on that black fleece sweater
with the drawstring pulled out

I'm dressed for travel!
Tattered rags and
Drawstring leather saddlebags,

Home-made shoes and
Unkempt hair...
A woven sack? What's hiding there?

A folding knife, a
Length of string, a
Photograph, a mandolin,

A lumpen package bound in twine,
An apple and a draught of wine,

An empty space I've yet to fill--
Lord willing, though, I think I will.

i disappear
into drawstring pants
with the drawstrings cut out
and the tee shirt i wore
for two days
before i was brought more clothes

paper shirt paper pants
see through when tight
and bright yellow non-slip socks

if i try
i can easily return to that place
the white lights
the pills in dixie cups
the isolation room with chalkboard walls

i can return
anytime
to that post-attempt numbness
just shuffling along
destination a to destination b
"okay everyone,
it's time for group"

watch the yellow socks move along
forget you're controlling them
forget your feet are within
forget you exist
it's almost peaceful

If I could give you every thought
that I left unexpressed and tie them
up in a drawstring bag and if this bag
could only hold the sweet ones,
the good ones, the ones that
made you feel O YES THIS
IS SOMETHING and you
could let go of the rest
well:
Thoughtless would just be
a poor beggar we never had
to feed, living on air and
quite nowhere, not
with you and not with
me and if love were
enough, if love could
make I AM SORRY
get up and stand
on its hind legs and
pick flowers from
the highest tree
we would not have
a problem now
would we? you
would be you and
I would be me
fed on promises
(there is no other world
I want than ours) and
every thought made
less thoughtless
gathered together in
my bag of Please- I would
everyday shower you
with these
If

A gauntlet of beautiful words thrown down
Empties something carbon hard dark and scrabbling
I ache to leave; to see it leave, leaving always leaving
That's it I'm leaving

A gauntlet of gone and going to be and you'll see
and I won't be there here anymore then
exhausts itself and deflates
into angry ice cream consumption with wine

A trillion germ cells pulled themselves together to become you at my door knocking everything down and grinning at your terrible power
You needed to feel powerful
To be the one
To shove your love in a bag and pull the drawstring almost flippantly closed
Giving you power of taking breaking as if
As if slamming the door first or hardest made right of all the daring to be worse than and
All the daring to be Better than
at decimating
Every day's 10% off the top leaving only bottom time
Power through all that love all that life all this family in no time take off your safety glasses now there's nothing left
It turns out you were right
it always rattled
now its quiet and you don't understand
what to do with your
well designed well built amazingly well run gauntlet by yourself

I keep guilt on me
like a first aid kit at the bottom of a drawstring.
and instead of healing,
I make my own wounds worse.
I want to bring something else there first...
but my shame always beats me to the punch...
apathetically indifferent,
thinking too much...
the most passionate affairs burn up the quickest.
ours was a fever dream, & you were the sickest...
letting you go took a heavy dose of misery,
I've got scar tissue like thick sheets across my psyche.
and it still isn't easy...
my misery keeps finding miserable company.
the farthest thing away from inspiring...
I'd be more ready to move on
if I could just stop moving positions...
but my legs keep falling asleep,
and I'm not good with significant transitions...
but everything in life moves so ******* fast,
no one cares that you knew me in my past
you don't know me in my present.
thinking too much, apathetically indifferent...
and **** your good intentions, I knew you had none
there's never been two people here, only one.
I'm tired of carrying guilt for two
I've got so many other things to do