Comicbookfiend

I am dead in my skin,broken in my bones. I want to dip myself in hot wax,and rot away in the wax museums on hollywood boulevard. The ones filled with miniature versions, of life sized people. Nobody knows me, I am nothing. I want to drown in the pools that are your eyes, and swim in the oceans that aren’t close enough to drive to. I miss the smells of the beach and the taste of corn dogs that didn’t cost 4 dollars and taste like shit. I want to get out of here, and forget the way I can’t speak english and my words aren’t words but thoughts traveling on a train that goes to fast for me to communicate where I want to be, wherever that is.  I dream of daydreams and looking like the dead of night, disappearing and reappearing when I can’t stand being unseen anymore, which would be pretty quickly considering my habit of trying to run away and failing to remain a mystery. I want you, I want everything, I want nothing. I want to lie in a bed that reeks of tie die ink and yesterday’s dinner, and I want to fight in a house that has actual windows, not just shaky glass. I don’t understand, I miss the world, but I haven’t seen it, If I had, I know I would miss it though. I want to waste away like the night, and transform in to the blue that inspires a day dedicated to kite lovers, I’m sick of being this. I want to be mad, and do drugs and run away and cry all the time, and dread lock my hair and pierce my own bellybutton and smoke my life away stick by stick, I want to smear my lipstick, slit my wrists, wear to much mascara and when I decide that it’s finally enough, I want to hang myself, the way Eric said he would want to die, you wouldn’t feel anything. I want to die, I really want to die, I just want to die. I will never look like Kirsten dunst, I will never end up in the place I want to go, because I don’t think it exists, even if I really believed it did. Just fucking save me. 

I wish you could understand the way I feel, but I am well aware that you like everyone else cannot even fathom this ache in my soul, an ache for salt water and dread locks. I want to live in a dream, forever thriving on sleep and deep breaths that sweep the floors of death. I don’t quite miss the world the way I had thought for all those years, in fact I sort of detest it. I wish I could feel the things that everyone else isn’t feeling. Love is bullshit, your self image is a lie. Stop pretending that your anything more than the blood and guts that I am. Your a soul sucking beast in the translucent skin that could intoxicate someone in a ghostly sort of admiration. I’ve decided to refrain from throwing myself at you, since in the end it will only lead to more self hatred. It’s you I should hate, you fucking hypocrite, stop pretending that I’m just your dust pan. If you hate me so fucking much then you wouldn’t bother asking what I’m doing. I’m doing nothing, the way you are and I’m riding my bike to my neighbors house at 3 am. I don’t even know anymore, I’m a vincent in disguise born to thrive on despair, I’d rather thrive on ocean water and breaking rules. But I’m neck deep, lost in the passion fruit of your lungs. I’m drowning in your fluids.