here goes. 

one last letter now. one last attempt to make sense.
who have i been writing to? i’m not sure anymore.
what have i been trying to accomplish?
it’s a mystery, i guess. self-made secrecy.
things get cloudy and now all these stories and
the struggle as an undercurrent, both get blurry by the minute both get blurrier.
so, which voice is this then that i’ve been writing in? is it my own or his?
has there ever been a difference between them at all?

i don’t know. i don’t know.

one last desperate plea. one last verse to sing.
one last laugh track to accompany the comedy.
have i been losing it completely? losing sanity?
or has it been fabricated, fashioned by the worst of me?
i know i knocked the table over because i watched the jar break
and i’ve been trying to repair it every single stupid day
but won’t the cracks still show no matter how well it’s assembled
can i ever just decide to let it die and let you go?

all my motives and every single narrative below reflects
that moment when it broke and will i never let it go
no matter what? now i am throwing all the shards away,
discarding every fragment, and fumbling uncertain towards a curtain call
that no one wants to happen,
that no one’s going to clap for at all, but that still has to be.



(Source: monstersathome, via burger-nipples-deactivated20121)



No one’s asking to go dancing, it’s not like that anymore.
It’s romantic if they mean it when they shut your fingers in the door.
It’s a gory sort of story that’s been told a hundred times before.
Don’t be picky, it gets tricky. If the slipper fits, you wear it, whore

How many tips can I take home tonight without them going mad?
How many stitches do you think it takes to fix a cut that bad?
How many minutes until midnight and you get your eyesight back?

How many crimes can I try spotting dry before it leaves a stain?
How many times say that I love you til it doesn’t mean a thing?
How many fittings must I sit through with my big feet blistering?
How many strips until it hits me and my big mouth strikes again?

















there are no journals in hell.


dylan carter.

i hate you all.

so, i'm cynical, i guess, but what's left worth believing in? wicked are the ones who dare to think outside the box.

entries.

suicide note.

group.

aim: andweall.falldown

sweet sweet angel caramel dip nips.

my fucking face.

mother hen.

georgie porgie.


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