The flash of light coming through the wholes where the windows should be indicate storm. There is rain and I love the smell of wet pavement. But I'm afraid that if you leave, the only thing I'll smell is wet pavement.
Don't cover your ears, Love. Lightning is frightnening but brave will save you. The wet pavemnt smells slightly like pennies, ripe blood, that copper tinge, and your scent is dulling as the pavement gets wetter and wetter. drop. drown. dead.
One thing I'm sure of is that I am a volt and you are lightening. I spark triple A batteries and you haunt the nightmares of the bravest child and you, you do not tremble me.
I thought of being an astronaut. But I’m afraid of heights.
I could be a guitarist. But I hated Middle School choir and
they usually sing backup.
Once my Mother suggested I go out for the track team. I’m
picky about shoes though, and they didn’t
have my color.
I dread a future of ever being an astronaut, a guitarist, or
a track star because of my own quick concluded mind. I extinguished those
futures like tears on lit birthday candles. Sizzle.
I wanted to be a princess. But it isn’t “in my blood”.
You can’t tell me
what’s in myblood.
Or my drippy knees
Or knobbly nose.
Or my blood.
That’s thick-headed and shortsighted.
Half-baked: [haf-beykt,] adjective
, stupid; not thought through.
I sat up because of an improper thought that started a
tapping in my marrow and a pulsing in my lashes. You may have aimed for my
eyelids but the pain seared out to my lashes. It was my blood that caused that
You would say that.
I’ll write a story that gives you more freckles and tells
your wife she’s on fire.
Do you slap the wad of hair conditioner at the top of your
head or begin at the ends? It makes sense with the shampoo. You drop it on top.
That’s where the grease is. That’s why we shower right? To get rid of the
grease? I should ask Suzy E.
“HEY GREASER GIRL!”
Are greasers the people that don’t wash their hair?
or just use lots of moose and hairspray. *turns around* I’m so uncultured.
It’s that short breathing, feet sweating, lip biting kind of
It’s the heaving breaths of your own conscience enveloping
the tremble. I mean, I’ve got it too.
I’m scared of thinking so much that there won’t be any
wonders or stutters left.
I don’t want to run out of books or concerts. Most girls are
afraid they’ll run out of Nicholas Sparks. Slap yourselves. And read a book
with 3 words you don’t understand. And read them and read them because you
don’t understand. You really don’t get it. Quit being scared of not knowing.
I’m petrified of not knowing.
“You don’t know.” -Mom
I’m scared out of my wits of suicide because I’m afraid of
my inside wanting to finish off my outside. And all because of the outside. And
I don’t know about suicide or what the side effects of suicide are or wtf
Being is a side effect of suicide.
Eating out and reading the encyclopedia seem like viable
side effects of suicide.
Every lullaby and utter and knee slap are side effects of
suicide and how does life not lead to suicide. I mean, our body is what kills
us in the end.