I'm having some identity problems. Just ignore this. It's nothing... The streaks of yellow across the sky resemble the glare of stage lights while the bench bellow me seems like a prop not meant to hold me up but to show me off so that all the world can glare at me. Looking at my hands I envision the gloves that once covered them when I twirled on a stage in a blur of color. As the wind played with my hair tossing and twirling it in the morning sun I touch my hands to the lipstick staining my mouth As if it could make me smile for the first time. As if I could ever be happy. Wiping the lipstick, a powder dusts my hands from the makeup covering me like a shroud. Like a mask was plastered to my face. Like everything was a show meant to entertain the people playing with the strings attached to my limbs. And for the finale I pull out a pair of scissors. _______________ I wrote that for my book~
Character is Noel, owned by me - - - - - - - - Music: The Scientist by Coldplay, music box ver.
