she’s crazy- but she fucks good. god, ive heard myself say this much to often. and so what if she’s broken?, maybe everyone is- maybe i broke her.
I'm sorry, i keep building these time machines, keep bringing you back. it's not like there is any real conclusion, not really. not like i won't get half way to you and crash it right to the ground. buried remains of twisted metal and false memories. It's not like i really want to go back, not really.
I never thought she was the kind of girl who would tell someone no. I liked and hated that about her. she fucks guys because she thinks it makes them like her. It’s all she knows, that and the writing, that and the stories; the coming and going, the art of saying good-bye.
"ive never not cheated on someone", i once confessed to her.
the kind of truth that hurts. the kind of truth you should keep to yourself. the reward for truth is often mistrust.
now she's the same as me; a cheat and liar. a whore and thief. a swinger, a baker, a fucking candle stick maker la..la...love you..la... la...
she was always the same as me. pretty words and terrible lies. secrets bled out on a page - vaguely hidden truths between the lines, between the spaces between the lines and the love and fuck and fun that haven't any difference. a freedom and art given to you by another that swallows you up inside, that never seems to calm you the way you think it might. ive made a home, and ive searched for home somewhere in your crazy heart.
all i can say is ..... your skin, I wait for it. i dream of it. i live for it. my whore. i don't know where you are but i know what you are. why does that scare you so? there is a home in our crazy hearts. yours and mine.
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