listening to: the beast - angus and julia stone.
reading: the true history of the kelly gang - peter carey.
watching: that 70s show; episode "the promise ring"
eating: air.
drinking: water.
they've branded me with the mark of the number of the beast. "12"
because that's what two sixes make, right? why wish for a third?
i'm scared of seeing you, because that big old smile is all you wore.
and now it's turned to a scowl of envy and a back turned; waving off heat waves of hate.
her hair is so l-o-n-g, it covers her completely, and in an act of confusion i laughed.
so we have our fingers crossed with our business sleeves, and we're carefully glueing in our newspaper cutouts.
my name is curled with dead sunflowers and english moor poppies, and small letters tell me to "colour the small one", but i still haven't quite figured out what that means.
a tiny blurred girl, dressed like a lady in her mamma's jewels and her red shoes on, in a dusty sepia field trading roses for guns, and a heart full of lust; to kill what she wants the most.
and all the buttons and ribbons and zippers and newspaper cutouts that i've been glueing all along, have consumed me as a person, and taken my soul, so now i'm made out of all the things i've been dying to collect.
in the oddest way.
