America – here I am. Two hours, pen poised.
Blank page and sirens vibrating my panes.
America – my hymen’s broken; ruptured after a boozy
Round where you exposed your underbelly – a tableaux:
A boy asked my name – his hand running
Like cool water through my sweaty hair.
America – must I repeat it to your policemen?
My hymen’s broken! My spirit is broken.
I am broken. And…
I’m broke. America –
Somewhere, nestled in the sty
Of your corporate puritans
Of your red-lights
Lies my last fragment: an echo, a reflection
Of a blonder, paler, ghostlier, more seraphic
Version of the virginal, blue-eyed me.
America – a hand reaching out of the sky.
A palm clumsily collapsing cities more ancient than democracy.
A finger crooked – “no” – denying millions nurturing.
America – when will I feed on you?
America – when will you lie down for me?
America, my blood on my fingers…
Bile rising with pulse; the howls of my own breathing
As I opened my eyes to the infernal mirror
And saw a makeup-smeared whore bleating back.
America – get your skeletons on the floor; force them into position.
Tell your self-aggrandized media they are praying
As they force their camera and find us:
Your mistakes and I in our most grim repose.
America – your uptight, tight, be-cardiganed sluts
Took me under the umbrella of their noses;
America – ’cross my death, hope to love
At dances, I watched your princesses fingered
At parties, I watched their sexual value diminish.
America – my lips are bruised, my nipples scabbed
My cunt unspeakably sore and reddened.
America – middle-America, trash-America, teen-America
A little orphan girl alone in America.
The sacrifice for your American boys’
hungry bellies.
America – my father calling every Sunday night to ask if,
Y’know, I was alright. The before and after, I was fine. Still.
America – yes, I lied. I lied. Did I have enough money?
Was I safe? I lied. Out of conceit, yes, I lied.
Did I remember when I was little, how I kissed his cheek?
I lied. My magnificent misjudgement.
My spectacular, thrashing, guilty inferno.
Why did my number change? Why was I crying?
I’ll burn in Hell for the sugary image I painted of you, America.
America – when will I train a gun on you?
America – will you ever free me instead of fuck me?
America – my alchy, rotten, morning breath.
America – my flushed, filthy skin in dawnlight.
Oh, America – I do not begrudge you. How could I? If I myself
Had’ve been part of that consumptive mob,
I myself would have had me consumed.
Yes. If I myself had been part of that bestiary bit,
I would’ve ripped myself apart too – taken holy reverence
As I chugged my blood, chowed down on my flesh.
America – a bleeding heart, a desecrated, marble defloweree –
Scarlet dribbling on immaculate, ivory thigh;
Mussed hair and stuttering excuses; forged alibis,
Bloodshot eyes and a bit-through lip.
America – a howl. A wail. A groan. A grunt. A naïveté.
My warbling, warped, gaping baby-mouth stifling out,
“America,” – and the most perturbing question, “Why?”

Fall Fling Mixer

This is it --

Kid's bunny-fucking
on the dance floor,
dry humping,
steady moving of the hips,
gentle rotation for six hours on end,
girl rubbing, guy rubbing, both staring blankly -
bleakly ahead.

Air hot and humid,
gym walls beginning to sweat like its patrons.
The floor slick and sticky
with spiked punch and spit.

Fat girls crying because
no one will notice them for the right reason
(or, rather, the reason they'd hoped for).

Insecure girls
standing stock-still,
boys milling around,
on a constant,
formidable,
boring search,
everyone awkwardly catching each others eyes,
people we don't know,
look away,
don't look back.

Rejection.
Possession.
Sexual tension being unleashed in a radical but frustratedly inept display.
 

According to some,
people are fingered in the middle of
the dance floor.

Boys come out exuberant,
triumphant -
and the girls come out spent,
confused,
and perkily pretending.

Because no one wants to admit it.

There was something foul about the whole experience.
A certain humiliation.
A certain surrender of romance.
A certain lack of excitement.

Of course, tomorrow,
this will be catalogued as a rager,
people will gush --
but it was boring, trust me.

We will pretend it was fun,
but all we did was watch twelve-year-old awkward,
short boys and girls dry-fuck as music blared,
too loud,
and a strobe light confused
those less intelligent.

And none of us found a prince charming,
and none of the boys found a Jessica Alba.

These are ugly years we now front,
and I wish I could just sit down with these kids, and just -
talk to them.

Try to know them on less than a physical level.
Because what is appearance
but a random assertion of
lips and eyes and
bones and good or
bad skin?

I am bad at finding people on that level.
I have to see below it.

I have to know the mind
that dwells below - smart,
stupid, fun, boring, sharp,
obtuse, nice, mean, good,
evil?

Who cares who rubs up against you, really?

If nothing,
these dances teach
a certain abandonment of the body.

Who cares if someones dick,
hard, sits neatly between your buttocks?

We're all just bodies.

It's all just skin.

And we're all of us sweating,
hot,
red-faced,
but unable to
contain our boredom,
just waiting for the magic
everyone promised us
to kick in.

You lust after a drink about twenty minutes in and,
of course,
no one has anything.

You wish you were on drugs.
You wish you weren't sober.
You wish someone would take you
totally away from the situation,
that an angel would descend - that,
fuck,
your parents would descend,
and say it's time to go home,
that's enough playtime now,
urge you to thank those
who invited you.

But when the final song plays,
and we file out in one big amoeba rush,
none of us caring that we're pressing up
against dicks and paunches and breasts -
budding, stuffed, bloomed and otherwise -
because we learn not to care.
 
And after that,
you wonder how sex can be fun.

And after that,
you walk into the freezing cold,
in your mini that you spent hours debating over in your head
(would it make you look fat?
Skanky?
Would your underpants show if you started grinding?),
in your boob tube -
nipples showing through,
and...

You go home.
To your suburbs,
dreading the onset of adulthood,
because as awkward as these times are,
I know and
you know
growing up will be even more arduous,
and even more magical pleasures
you were promised
will be disproved,
debunked,
and you will be shown the light:
the delusion that you
have suffered.

Because,
no,
life isn't a fairytale
and nor is it a tween movie.

Nothing particularly exciting happens.

But in ten minutes,
your mom will be here to pick you up,
and in eighty years,
you get to decide
whether this night
was worth the bracelet you lost in the process.

And you blink.
And you're home in bed.
 

-- That was it.

Hit By Man
He left for Venice Beach last morning,
the rust of last night was still adorning
his beating heart. Mother's fickle warning...

As the lonely bus drove there, towing
the thoughts of her and her eyes, knowing...

He remembers the pain in her cry -
see, he tore her dress from neck to thigh -
see, he knew a part of her would die -...

(But, please, he needed to get inside)

He left for Venice Beach yesterday
And now she rests in her tomb of clay
Decaying. He will go. But she will stay.

---
Man, I must be crazy.

God Bled America

I can hear it now: in the bullets.
That ratcheting sound of life ending.
In the daily howls of the inebriated,
the starving and the darling,
the depressed and the well-dressed...

The shouts of homecoming on the football field.
The post-adolescent boys waving confederate flags with ardor,
sunlight glittering falsely all around them. The girls who, too drunk to fuck,
succumb, surrender to the faithless, fatherly voice, "Well, at least blow me, then."

Blood pouring out of debutantes mouths, caught by porcelain bowls,
no one offers the grim, gruff comforts of, "You alright?"

We walk a tightrope.
They teeter. I keep my balance - pint of whiskey in one hand,
Bible in the other. Cigarette bit between my teeth
To keep from screaming. Pardon the cliché.

This was written during a rather bizarre "acid" turn my writing took; luckily, it cleared up, but it's still enjoyable to read.

The Baboon comment is supposed to be taken ironically - I'm not a racist.

The Spaces Between

He was grey. Not literally of course, but physically.

The space in between?

Interesting.

She was grey. Physically, obliquely, mentally, completely… and yet not quite.

The world embraced such greyness, with a passion.  

The space in between?

Exactly.

The opposite to passion?  

Lethargy, apathy, indifference, death?

Precisely.

Or not at all.

The space in between?

Perhaps.

Undoubtedly… doubtful. And falling. Slowly. For a square.

Blackness, and sliminess.

Being born.

I like it? Well I like life… I guess there’s a difference, but I don’t want to think about that space… in between.

What now?

Limbo.

Purgatory.

Lost.

Confusing, only just… Befuddling? I like that word. Bamboozling… like a baboon. They’re so good with their children, so much more like humanity than the Negro. And yet, less accepted (or maybe just as much) if you put it in a business suit and said “work”. They’re only fit for the ghettos. The Baboons, I mean.

The space between what is right and what we want. What is racist, homophobic, idiotic, and sensible.

Stay away from the space in between, or risk being sucked into the wrong side.

By George Bush. By your parents, by the kids across the street. The communists, the hippies, the fascists, the polar bears, the purple dinosaurs, barney, the man in the barn, who invited you in, because the hay was warm. Warm with what?

Jesus’ past…

The space between what we believe in and what we feel

Religion does not exist in anything but that place in between, before we can call it a cult.

The Nazis, the scientologists. Your mum, the Israelites, and of course, the Christians.

Listen to them because they’re all wrong.

With the exception of your mother, who only really cares as much as her physical capabilities allow.

The rest are plain mad.

I love it.

The SPACE in between. The hollow, empty, falling cavity in your mind. And then we’re gone. We are scientists.

The space in between the actual music, and the scary, fixated shrine she made for them.

With naked men, I swear to the numerous Gods that don’t exist.

Like Jesus Iscariot.

Incest? Please do.

Classical? More like incest.

We can fight whatever we want now, but never the morals of the dungeon family.

Our past…. Our future.

Let’s leave the world behind, burn the labels, drown the eulogies and forget the promises. Starve the pigs, starve your mind. It doesn’t matter in the space in between.

The space between God and the earth.

The space between humanity and hell.

The space between believing in these things, believing in yourself, and just plain giving up.

The space between the ocean and your soul disappearing and dislocating. Eaten by the waves, fractured by the salt, and saved by the shark teeth. The shiny, ever growing teeth.

The space between?

Suburbia and the cemetery. Where people have loved and lost their lives without ever knowing anything.

Without ever challenging anything.

Faceless names in eroding graves.

I want my computer to speak to me. I want it to speak back to me, because I spend too long sharing my soul with its keyboard. I want to hear its ringing voice (the bell tolling) that gave me hope that I didn’t need humanity. No one needs humanity- humanity is hunger, plague, and mortality. There is nothing extraordinary about life except life itself. And every sacrifice and every tear, which no one counts.

Farewell what you know. It doesn’t know you.

And it doesn’t want to.

We’re all grey.

In the space between.

Never-Ending
By fuck

It was a familiar smell – a familiar taste, a familiar touch, a familiar – worn – knowledge. A familiar background framed the feeling of familiar failure.

Too many “F”s… That applies too much to my grades. It applies too much to why I’m here. One thousand reasons to say goodbye, let ourselves go… Consume and be consumed.

Confirmation. Consummation. Consecration. Concentration.

I never had enough concentration.

Enough pens, enough sense, enough paper to keep going long after it doesn’t mater. After the rats persevere. Long after it maters that all I am is a matter of decay. A number of days, breaths, heartbeats, heartbreaks, thoughts, words, denials, and insults. Enough failures and never enough relief to help me through the darker nights when all I have is black and blue. And I all I believed in is bruised.

When everything I have ever been dies in the eyes of what I am.

And what I have done.

And more importantly, what I haven’t ever dared to do.

Nobody really wants to know, they don’t want to think more than they have to.

They don’t want to feel the pain of thought. Or the thought of my pain.

The clot of words, or the never
Ending
Flow.

The way leeches thin your blood.

The way a baby only survives in a parasitic life. Until it’s time to go, time to be born, time to breathe their first breath, to breathe their last, to die.

We all break hearts; we all own them.

Our actions… footprints only in the minds of people who we knew, and thought they knew us.

Rainbows. Kittens. How you loved your baby kitten

But cats bring us dead birds.

My soul is pixelated. It’s neon, and it glows in the dark.

This is what happens when the future takes place. When tomorrow becomes today and tomorrow’s tomorrow looks forward to nothing but the end.

We have so many people counting down the signs until Judgement Day. The Armageddon. The Rapture. The Apocalypse.

It’s happening today. Right before the blind faith of ‘righteous’ people, the ones who fail to see. Or don’t want to. Or who do… but just can’t because it doesn’t fit with their holy calendar.

Hate is love. Because without hate, love wouldn’t be seen as such a brilliant thing, such an act of kindness. The one person, who bothers to care, is that who hates.

I hate you. It’s a compliment.

Creatures are prowling, walking the earth, the globe, the never ending path of destruction and death… and accidental creation.

Breaking down; can you feel yourself corrode?

Heartbreak?

Loss?

It’s why we say goodbye, and who we say goodbye to.

It’s the reason we give up hope, and this death, this never-ending end… is the reason we keep breathing.

Life to the last breath.

The reason we care.

“Never-ending”

How repetitive. How much of this never ending lie can we believe?

How long does it take to break us, when we’re already made of glass?

Your tears evaporate under the heat of social pressures. The glares from people you don’t actually care about. It’s good to know their hate means you’ll be loved tomorrow. It’s therapeutic to imagine… your sleep is really your beginning.

My dreams saved my life. And then they saved yours. I switched the pills. I watched you while you slept. I broke my own heart with sticks and stones. Your words hurt me- you never knew, but I cried because I loved you. I cried because I hated something more than I hated myself. I cried because I was never flawless enough.

I kept on yelling after you because perfection was boring.

If you were ‘just what the doctor ordered’, you’d have to kill yourself. Because you’d never be as happy as you were in that moment.

Don’t cry.

I’m here for you. Until I die.

Which is inevitable. And, for me, designed.

I’m glad our love is dead already.

Edible.

Falling.

Eat your heart out. This is the new goodbye.

Drunk and shivering, Ev and I sat on the corner of the London street and talked over our stations in life. Me, a 'priveleged, jet-setting teen'. Him, future 'pauper', 'dopefiend', 'rentboy'. Snow flakes flew around us, settled on his eyelashes, the brim of my cap, and blood was frozen from some pub brawl earlier that night under our feet. The street lit in orange. Our arses getting damp. The sky purple and turgid with inky clouds of pollution on top of us. Me coughing out my lungs - the parents refuse to take me to the doctor's about it; I should've known better than to sneak out. ("What if I die?" "You'd deserve it." They won the arguement.) Blood on my palm - not sure if it's because my throat has been damaged from coughing so much, or if it's from my young lungs. Am I diseased? Will I survive? 

I was sent off to America for six-weeks, getting special leave from school for a 'family emergency'. My parents tired of me. "There's only so much two people can take, girl." Sent to Baltimore, Maryland, to live with some distant cousins. They were thrilled for me to be there; they tried to make me 'a part of the family'. I hitched up my shirtsleeve, made a fist, told them to draw blood - if it came back positive, that was enough for me. They didn't get it. Blamed it away on jetlag.

My mother was behind my internment in America for those six weeks, I'm sure of it. I caught her in bed with her chavesque lover. Classiness: it runs in my family. I agreed to go begrudgingly; England was making me sick - but America made me sicker. 

When you leave America, you forget all the morbid minor details - the injustices, the hypocricies, the lack of any social conscience - and wistfully remember how big-hearted and amusing Americans are. It's a land of variation - all ends of all spectrums covered. Puritanical hysteria. Politically sanctioned (and attended) sex clubs. Good ol' fashion family values - pull away the skin to see the brain working underneath. The men who preach the loudest invariably are the filthiest. 

I can say this all with some immunity. I am, technically, American, although I don't paticularily like to pledge allegiance to any one paticular country. They all seem to fuck up royally in the end.  

The family I was staying in was beyond dysfunctional in their attempts at Middle Class perfection. I had never before expirienced anything like it - the children were best friends with their parents; family outings occured every single day. There was no room - I could never sneak away. They were constantly watching. Constantly monitoring. It was the worst type of facism. My one hopeful form of escapism - getting hooked up with my cousin's friends, finding the easiest way to accquire liquor and maybe some illict substances, was dashed on my fourth day back in the country - every conversation I had with them was strictly PG, at the most. I got a headache from hearing the name 'Zac Efron' mentioned in such quick, gushing succession. Seeing an ad for High School Musical still induces a violent reaction within me - usually, it ends in me vomiting. 

I wish I could tell you I was being melodramatic.

I was allowed to attend school over there; desperately, my eyes ran over the thronging populace enclosed within the state school system. Some people looked like they'd be useful - but none of them the types I'd want to associate with. Jocks; Cheerleaders; Emos; Goths. I find all subcultures, in themselves, pathetic. Another adolescent, desperate grab at any form of acceptance. "You'd be non-conforming too if you looked just like me."

Despairingly, I realized I'd have to dry out in Maryland, USA. 

 It was Hell. During grocery shopping, I'd linger around the liquor aisle. I didn't realize I had morals - within our second trip, I had the place cased. I knew where the mirrors aimed, and I knew what they saw. It was strictly a Mom 'n' Pop operation. No cameras. I could've rescued Johnnie Walker and left with everyone none the wiser. But - for some reason - I didn't. I couldn't.

Within a week, I abandoned my sub-culture snobbery, and approached a group of Emos - Disenfranchised Teens!(TM). A painful conversation occured, in which through several terms I tried to get them to tell me whether they had accsess to alcohol. Eventually, it turned out they didn't. I flipped them off and called the lead-emo, who was doing most of the mumbling, a douche-sniffer whilst walking backwards away. I bumped into someone's chest; a senior's, Italian, swarthy, Julian, who thought he was a lot hotter than he was. Square-jawed and blue-eyed, sure; is that really what the world needs anymore? He had been listening; he told me he could get me some whiskey. I looked at him like I loved him.

He wanted sex; I wanted booze. We were both under the impression we had the other one of the hook. Apparently, he told some friends it was the perfect situation since, by that time, I was three weeks away from returning to London. There was no chance of any lasting relationship.  

Julian got me whiskey by wheedling his older brother into buying it for him; it was hardly heroic. I paid for it. He tried to advance on me - said some two-bit line, mentioned 'love', stumbled through some declaration of 'need' - and I refused. Incensed, he incited a rumour through school that I was a prudish lesbian. No one - not even my cousins, hoping to save face - would speak to me. I spiked my school spirit water bottle with whiskey and coke zero, and all was right with the world. 

On my last day, getting teary-eyed drunk during US History, a teacher - Mrs. Helegoff, or something like that - asked me in front of the full class what I thought of America. I launched into my spiel. When I had run out breath, and gone back to drinking, an uneasy, hateful silence filled the room, still palpable as the class moved on to talk of John Adams. 

I opened my locker; three pieces of folded triangles fell out. One said 'whore'. The other said 'lesbian, bony bitch' - bitch underlined three times. The third said, 'you're going to get what's coming to you.' All in different handwriting. All in diffent inks. I folded them up and put them in my pocket. I was leaving the next day; I wasn't worried.

That night, I went out for a last hurrah, by myself, down the Baltimore streets. Baltimore, according to the locals, in the fourth most dangerous city in America. There are heroine dealers; Bloods; Crypts; whatever. On Halloween, a rumour spread through us teens that 31 women were going to be murdered by some gang - the Bloods, I think. Everyone was forebade to go trick-or-treating. That Halloween, the streets were empty - but you could see six year old ghosts, vampires, witches, fairies peaking through their bedroom windows nervously. I walked around the city in circles, so I wouldn't lose my bearings, until my legs were sore.

A boy I knew from school somewhat vaguely - Edward - stopped his car next to me and asked if I wanted a lift. I was tired; I hopped in. 

We talked politely as he drove me home, down the winding, tree-lined streets. The leaves had fallen; the trees looked like skeletal hands clawing the violet sky. On the radio, latest abomination to music, MGMT, played happily. He turned it down. He told me he admired my bravery in standing up to a prick like Julian. I watched the trees wind by with a sense of vertigo, or something like it. A nausea in my stomach. I told him bravery was taking a bullet; not standing up to a prick. People aren't afraid of assholes like Julian - they're just afraid of reprisal. If we all didn't care what anyone else thought of us, we'd be a lot happier. We'd have something closer to utopia, anyways. He stopped the car in the alley next to my cousins' house.

He began to, for some reason, confess to me how bad he wanted to go where something was happening - London, for instance. Or New York. He asked me what Australia was like. I told him no matter where he went, he'd always be there. You couldn't outrun your shadow. I explained to him that of all the cities and countries I've lived in, the same problems keep on resurfacing. I still alienate people. I still drink, faint, starve, mock religion, hate indiscriminately, say too much, use people, taunt people I deign stupid. There's not any one society that would accept me; I am a pariah. Edward cupped my cheek, or attempted to. I jumped out of the touch. He said we all feel like that, at some time or another. I slammed the door on his words.

I've been waiting fifteen - nearly sixteen - years to stop feeling like this. 

The cousins had wanted to bid me farwell at the airport. I left earlier than necessary for my plane ride; caught a taxi to the airport. I left a taciturn letter of thanks to my captor. I'm no good at the whole 'good bye' thing. 

On the plane, during turbulence, I thought of Edward. He seemed tender and romantic enough; he'd asked me in the middle of the conversation, out of the blue, was I a lesbian? Everyone said I was. I didn't answer him. I'm not; I just can't deal with romance. I see men; I want to fuck them. But I can't deal with the things in between the seeing and the fucking. I can't bare the thought of kissing; romantic banter makes me sick. I can't deal with anyone else's insecurities and fallacies. Someone the opposite of me is not the answer; Someone the same as me is not the answer either. 

Sitting on the side of a London road, a city choked with people and heritage, Ev said I was lucky in the middle of one of my coughing bouts. He said something about the sky being the limit. I made a drunken, half-arsed, little comment about how rock-bottom is my only limit. He kissed my cheek and hugged me; inside someone else's arms, feeling him kiss the top of my head, hearing his heartbeat drumming against my ear, I was wished a merry christmas and a happy new year. 

This forced me to think of 2008, a year in review:
Obama won. The world economy failed. People will lose. People will die. People will starve. Hardship will reign. The environment is on its last legs. The sun is going to explode. The next ice-age is coming. We're losing touch. Families are falling apart at the seams. Humanity is a dying recreation. 

Lord, this if my final plea: Don't let the bomb drop. 

I'm coughing out my insides here. I think I might be dying. Passing out is how I pass the time.

To anyone who visits this journal...,
I hope you had a commerical christmas,
and I hope this next year'll take mercy on you.

Goodbye,   
Fuck I Can't Think
 

An Holocaust survivor came to our school today. He's eighty-eight. It was better than any religious expirience I could ever have. The emotions were so heightened, and I was filled with such awe and wonder at his capability to Survive. We were eighty girls crammed into a stuffy near fucking coat closet listening to this strong, sure, elderly man recount emotions unfathomable and hatred only worthy of barbarians. Almost all of us cried, and it was weird, comforting girls that under any other circumstances I'd hate. There we all were, crying, awed by something so horrible we all pray it'll never happen again. 

Even though, inevitably, it will. 

Afterwards, I was talking with a good friend of mine about our legacy. Our generation's. Here we are, in cultural purgatory -- We're all so connected, but none of us have ever been more alone. One in eight marriages in America - their relationships start online. We may as well have given up on human contact. This is the end. Beginning of the end, at least... All this information will be lost, is so easily lost. The doomsday vault will be rendered absoloutely useless. Our generation's legacy is our capability of destruction. We could make anything. But we could decimate everything - every Shakespearean sonnet, every fucking Brahms piece. Every page of every Torah, Koran and Bible in existance. 

Our legacy could be to leave nothing behind.  

I'm exhausted and living in England. My tan has become a coffee-stain colour over my skin. Their sky is always closed, and rain falls constantly. I shiver so much, it's as normal now as breathing, that tremor under my dirty skin, those muscles twitching constantly trying to warm up this brokendown machine. I have never been this miserable before, and everyone says it's just because I'm overwhelmed by all this estrogen I'm taking in. They tell me I'm finally just Becoming A Woman - you know, depressed, closed, entrapped. Rah, rah, rah. Go females. 

The other day, I was at a cafe, when I overhead these two guys talking about the American elections. They were a little out of date, but when said, "Like, a woman and a black dude running for president? What's next? A dog?" From their jackets, and their books, they were obviously from the university. This is our legacy. 

The Holocaust survivor made me think of how we are all hungry, every single one of us. The basis of humanity is hunger, and maybe I'm growing up, but I'm beginning to understand that I never want to be full. Satieted. Bloated. Let me always be hungry. Let me always be yearning. Amen. He showed me his tattoo, on his right arm, unbuttoned his smart suit and ran his fingers over it. He told me how the women survivors always want to get skin graphts to rid themselves of the identity of Austwitchz castaway, Survivor, whatever, but that the electric needles they used to 'brand' them were so intense that the numbers still come through. You can't paper over evil. And you can't forget when it's touched you. He cupped my cheek and I flinched away from the touch. He smiled into my eyes and said, "Hey. Smile. Be happy. Do not cry."

I hadn't realized I was. Everyone in school thought it was great. Stone had finally bled...

Walking outside, feeling this weird ringing in my chest like white noise, trying to comprehend what I couldn't... A girl walked past me, and I overheard her conversation to. She wants to get a tattoo like that on her arm, for 'like, irony'. Immitation Evil. 

This is our legacy.