"Secret destroyers, hold you up to the flames
And what do I get, for my pain?
Betrayed desires, and a piece of the game"
I'm seventeen years young and completely lost. I like- no scratch that- love to write about suicide, fallen love, diminished beauty, and everything concerning a wrinkled heart. Music sets me into worm hole of another world, where the universe creates this space only for me to dance in. I've been told I have anxiety disorder. Cue the violins.
So I wanted to start writing. Writing about nothing. Writing about this world that I am lost in. Writing about my short, uneasy, cheesy, life filled with unwanted love, bad habits, and bloated thoughts.
I tend to spend a lot of time by myself, contemplating thoughts and leading my life to an unfulfilled tendency of high school homework and bad breath. Sometimes, I want to purchase doc martins and fly away into a rock concert, being a groupie, and finding love through tears and lipstick. Preferably on the sexiest man alive. Which I don't know who that is yet.
I think I've already been in love. I don't want to talk about him and the complete,utterly disastrous asshole he has turned into, but about the concept of love itself. I want to find it someday. I know that being young (though I feel outrageously old, like I should have done more in my seventeen years than imaginable) I have a lot of time to sort things out with myself and settle down with someone when I'm in my mid 20's. That seems like a perfect plan, thanks facts of life. But what I have witnessed about myself is that I cannot, and will not, form myself to anyone anymore. I'm too stubborn. Too driven. I'm like a cigarette's never ending flame. I just keep sparking, causing fires in front of the mouth. I burn, I sting, I possibly skill. Who knows, who cares?
"And someone will say what is lost can never be saved
Despite all my rage I am still just a rat in a cage"
Though itself is the worst subject ever. Speaking of it can only lead you to pure sanity. Feeling it leaves you in a wasteland of desired feelings. I imagine myself kneeling down on a luscious mountain, filling with mouth with nicotine and chocolate, and letting a boy's hand swift up and down my back. As I breathe out, my hair will wisp in the wind and I'll look as if I am Pocahontas having my hair swirl in the wind, the color of raven's wings and lips the color of crimson charcoal. Though the sunlight I'm looking out on to will be fluffed with orange clouds bursting through the sky's pink bruise. But then again, I imagine myself. Myself just lying there, mindless and unable to feel. Just a smile wiped across my face.
I sometimes play out scenarios in my head. I play games with myself. I tell myself stupid things, I make myself believe people I care about actually care about me. It doesn't work that way.
Neither does love.
"Now I'm naked, nothing but an animal
But can you fake it, for just one more show?
And what do you want?
I want to change
And what have you got, when you feel the same?"
- Bullet with Butterfly Wings, The Smashing Pumpkins
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