there is nothing i can say to cover up the truth. & i am nervous & i am angry & i am sad, yea. (it doesnt just look that way) but i cant always tell you what i see in you.

"well, what do you like to do then, in your papermaché dreams?"

anything but think of you, which always happens anyway & all i can do is tell you the truth. it is bitter cold & only july but the rain only falls in the evening & splashes through my heart.

i hate being here; i hate it more than you could ever imagine & still the fucking faces of people i once knew (& loved) dont see.

"who are you really & what do you do when you are free?"

i want to smash the glass they hold

(showing me who i really am)

& maybe then you & them would finally understand. (!!!)