DyingI'm dying.And you don't even care.You're a liar and a thief, and I have to fight alone. I know the real world, and I know my world, and to me, they're both going to end. Sometimes I think I'm just one of those people who won't ever find anyone, but it makes sense. Why would I have a soul mate if I'm just going to die soon?I keep dreaming about it. And you don't even care. Sometimes I think death is the only way to make people see. The dreams, though, right? Car crashes. Cancer. Something always gets me. How sad. And I can never seem to remember dying. In the visions, I'm already dead.and I lay there, alone, in the darkness, staring at my hands in front of my face.they fall onto my forehead and I sob.i'll never turn nineteen.
Burningdo you love me?there's nothing left for you to say. mostly because you fell asleep. maybe because we're all playing pretend. we're idiots, you know, the whole hand of us.i'm sick ofgames.actually, i'm sick of everything.my head is starting to spin without me having to take a pill. my eyes get heavy when i haven't had a drink. am i becoming what i want to, now? am i going to start getting dizzy and tasting colors?i'm lost.i deserve to die.because let me tell you a secret.i am a bad persondisguisedas a good person.that's what everyone is, my dearthat's what everyoneis.i got invited into burning bridges, and i said yeah, i can play some drums for you, but you have to let me be your beat first. and they said okay and i said i just wanted to become famous so i wouldn't have to have a real life.so that's what i'm going to do.and you don't have to worry, because i deserveto hide.
GoldenShe wants silver hair.But can't have it, because getting it will 'destroy her hair', so she guesses she'll keep it orange.All that bleach and dye, will it mix together and make us up a love potion? I guess you're my bronze medal. not silver. No.Never gold.Nobody can ever be gold, not even if they dye their hair yellow, or silver, or blue. Or purple.We can never be perfect, not us. Maybe she likes sunsets, and that band that is named after some man who cheated, and maybe her icey blue eyes will stab into me and beg me to love her love her love her, but I never will. I never will. Maybe she makes cigarettes look classy, like she's a sponsor for them, and gets all the boys to buy them, and maybe we'd be swingers, but what am I suppose to save her from? Her best friend, that's the one. I want her, I want to rip her apart and love her like nobody ever has. She doesn't text me for days, but those few moments that she loves me back, oh, I savour those. Her boyfriend. She has a boyfriend.