I'm honestly just sick of it all- Some people are earnestly being miserable and writing purple prose, though I'm bad at it too, so I can't judge. Some other people think that not caring, or being passionate about nothing, is admirable. I can pretend for hours that I'm above it all, but still, I'm guilty of so many things I shouldn't be. Like asking how come you got to be born like that? How come your life can be the one I wanted? I wish I could carve myself out of my life, and you of yours Like little paper dolls, and rearrange them so I can fit perfectly in yours too. To have your cutting and shell and their beauty The clothes you dress in and the things I wanted that you surround yourself with The people who love you and the people I just wish I could know I want your body. I want to be an angel But I can't. Apparently, life is what you make it. Seems like I just need to pick up the pieces. Somehow.
