Open Letter

Dear fuckcunt slutface,

I don't know what your fucking problem is, and I honestly do not give a fucking shit, but if you do have one come say it to my face instead of spreading rumors about what I supposedly said and/or did. You are a dirty little two faced cunt that pretends to be someone's friend then turns around, backstabs you and spreads nasty little things that aren't even true.
Do not try and take advantage of the fact that I am new to try and give me a reputation, it won't work. The only thing you showed me were who my real friends were.

Oh and by the way, if you're going to go and spread rumors, please...at least make sure no third person is there to deny everything you say and make you look like a fucktard...oh wait, no...you're a dumb blonde...it's normal you didn't think about this before!
So yeah...please. If you have a problem...discuss it with me. Just a friendly tip : what goes around comes around , so don't spread stuff that's not true, cause one day it'll just blow up in your face.

Sincerely,

Chris (or...that bitch, if you prefer)

Wake up Alone

Middle of the day, i'm still in bed
with a million thoughts running through my head
one side is empty and cold again today
it's been like this since he went away

I keep myself busy so I won't have to think
about all the things that tie my heart up in knots even more
I glance at your face and turn away
I barely know you but I'd like to know you more

maybe I should stop scheming, plotting, planning
I can see that you wouldn't fall for anything
it's better that i just turn away and forget you
wishful thinking won't get me anywhere or anything

and still, my heart keeps saying go,
but my head screams no
trying to make up my mind, my heart racing as you grab my wrist
i know i should not do it, but my heart was always a masochist

the day is fading and so is my self-confidence and still,
I don't really go to sleep anymore i know
i might dream of you and then tomorrow
I'll wake up alone...

On a string

"To put it nicely I hope you choke"

'nuff said. Really.
Stop being such a bitch, it doesn't suit you well, especially not in your case. Stop pretending you're hurt, I know you're not, this whole piece of bullcrap was your idea, you started this mess, you ended it, so stop acting like you're so affected by all this, you're not, you're not even slightly bruised. Now lick your so called fucking wounds and move the fuck on. Ignoring me and giving me the cold shoulder isn't gonna work. You're 19. Grow the fuck up.
'nuff said.

Space Nuts for E.T. Squirrels

Astronaut.
Astronut.
Astral nut.
Nuts in space.
The univere is our mental ward.
I am bones and muscle, skin and cartilage, I am hazel eyes and red lips, legs and breasts and a broken heart. I am an emotional masochist, I love subconsciously sabotaging my own happiness because security can only be found in familiarity and I am starting to get familiar with this feeling of detachement and cold heartedness. I am only as strong as I look, which is...I'm not even sure what I look like, I haven't seen my face in such a long time, and I paint it every day to make sure no one gets to see it before me. What am I again?
My heart is as bipolar as a mental ward patient and that is probably where it belongs for now, a refugee in a catatonic state deep inside a war plagued country. Don't wake me up, I am very happy sleeping my downs away, and when I'll awake, I'll take another happy pill and get on with my day, it'll help glue that goddamned smile to my face. How are you so normal? I can't seem to do that.
Heartbreaks on ecstasy never seemed to hurt me one bit, so maybe it's really the answer to everything? Here, take another one, this round's on me! All we do right now is procrastinating, telling ourselves we can always be sad tomorrow. Yeah...we can do that for the rest of our lives and the day we die will be the day we overdose on sleeping pills because we told ourselves we can sleep off our drug down.

I've only been used to running, walking seems so boring now

"I'll take a shot of tequila, a shot of whiskey and a double shot of adrenaline"
I like it fast. Fast and dizzying. Fast enough to get my heart racing, my head spinning and my blood running so fast through my veins that I feel that they might explode. I like extreme emotions, I like feeling everything I feel to the max. And I don't see anything wrong with that. I don't like taking my time, I think it's useless, I think life is meant to be lived to the max.
You think I'm going too fast, that it's all going too fast and going nowhere, so if you think you know where this should go, tell me, because I think you're about as lost as I am. I hate plans. Let's just see as we go, mistakes are meant to be made and learned from, and a scarred heart is harder than one that has never been bruised at all.

"Half angel, half wild, half a lady, half a child"
You don't know me. No one really does I think, because I'm not even sure I know myself that well. I lie down and reach out, trying so hard to grab one of the stars in the sky so I can put it in a jar and keep it for when I need to find my way back home. But they're far, too far...all I seem to grasp is air and the occasional fly that flies by. It's starting to get cold, even my bed is freezing, I'm shivering no matter how warm I seem to be. Maybe I need more warmth, more you, but I don't think you want to. Trust. To be continued eventually.


"Roll the dice, it's double or nothing"
I'm a gambler, but that you may have noticed already either from the ink trapped in my arm in the shape of a gambling Joker or from the way I gamble my heart out and hope this time I'll win. Funny thing, I never do. I bet you this time, I'm not going to get hurt. Oh...no, wait... too late for that, it already happened. Oh well, better luck next time, becaue yes, there is a next time, there is one all the time. I'm either naive or stupid, it depends on who's judging, but most think I'm just an idiot. I'm not. I just like to subconsciously sabotage myself and then wonder why the hell am I miserable. Yeah. Adrenaline junkie. And I'm nowhere close to rehab.

Cheap Confessions and my Blind Witness

Il était une fois un amour comme un nuage qui flottait dans ma tête vide, prennant toute la place, grandissant peu a peu. Un jour, le nuage devint trop gros, trop lourd. Il passa de blanc à gris, et il se mit tout d'un coup à pleuvoir. Maintenant, ma tête est juste vide...ou l'est-elle? A suivre.

Je n'ai jamais eu un don quelconque pour les mots, ni même la musique malheureusement. Je n'ai jamais pu écrire de proses envoutantes, ni aucune mélodie qui charmerait mille oreilles à travers une radio. Je n'ai jamais crée de symphonie ou écrit un best seller que tant d'yeux dévoreront avec avidité. Je ne crée que la permanence, ou une illusion de celle-ci, art ephemere et temporel, aiguille et encre, naissant sur ma peau. Le stylo ferme les yeux et il crée en patinant aveuglement sur le papier. Arrêtez d'essayer de guérir les artistes, c'est leur folie qui leur permet de se démarquer. Moi, les lignes me parlent. Alors ta gueule.

Ferme la porte et tire les rideaux, cette nuit durera pour le reste de notre vie, en autant qu'on reste dans le noir. Le soleil pourrait être jaloux de notre bonheur. Ferme la porte, sinon la passion pourrait s'enfuir, mais ne la barre pas, il n'y a rien qui t'empêchera de partir lorsqu'il sera le temps de le faire. Oui, car je sais qu'un jour tu te lasseras et que tu touneras le dos à notre nuit. L'éternité n'est en fait aussi longue que nous l'imaginons.

Je ne cours qu'avec le vent, c'est juste plus facile comme ca, j'ai passé l'âge des combats d'épées et des chevaliers en armure sur des chevaux blancs. Je dors tapie dans une chambre ou tout a l'air plus en vie que moi, même les photos sur mon plafond, sur un lit plus froid qu'un pic rocheux. Il a planté une graine de haine en moi et elle a pris racine et elle a grandi, il a planté le tournevis dans la gorge du merle qui a peine à chanter. J'ai connu des jours meilleurs et des jours ou tout semblait s'écrouler. On dirait que j'ai tout vécu, et que mon coeur, après tout, préfère juste se refugier dans cet etat catatonique, il ne dit plus rien, et ne veut plus rien savoir, avoir ou voir. On l'a dépouillé de son pouvoir d'aimer, c'est tout ce qu'il avait, le pauvre. Vous êtes des salauds, vicieux et abusifs.

Déviance émotionelle et plaisirs cachés.
Merry capitalist Christmas, l'Halloween n'est même pas passé.