Going from nothing to nothing. Adrift. In my useless runaway from myself, in search of a place where fall alive.
I gave perfection the cold shoulder and I stopped of being a good girl who made that their parents wanted for her.
Decisions, decisions. If I fuck my damn life, I wanna do it by myself.
Drinking beer and kissing lips and making red tea red as blood is and licking skins and passing up exams and doing tasks and reading books and
going to parties, which, between us, I hate, listening music, and writing lyrics, without music and rythm yet. At least I had a good time. Or not.
Perhaps. I'm not sure.
I'm full of contradictions.
I ate with the despair of bulimia every new thing, every drug. I went out with every guy I found a bit handsome. My nervous acts
and system weren't the same.
Who will love me tomorrow, that's something I won't know and I won't care.
My parents. Forgive them. They hate me. I hate them.
To my father's opinion I'm mad, 'bitch' and up, I'm a cold beast for my mother.
Straigh but not narrow... I don't mind, who cares is my complete voice.
I'm not 'usual'. They say. And they sent me to psichologysts. Since my eleventh birthday. Pathology not found. She's ok.
I walk alone like always no one understand me. Nobody. Only hands, and a knife.
Two years, two sickness, two tries to commit suicide, I didn't sense pain.
God I was close to meet you, Kurt, Sid and Nancy. But still underage, my body wanted to live. I don't blame it.
And even I came down as Berlin wall, I'd said yes with a split.
[m . e . d . i . c . a . t . i . o . n]
Halcyon. Prozac. Dicel. Adofen. Donormil. Tranxilium. Minilip. Polaramine. Fluoxetine.
I hated and hate hospitals. The cold metallic beds. The white. The nurses. The inquisitive glances. I didn't want to go there.
I'm self-destructive, but I keep some dreams and a stupid future. This time I haven't got courage to put off with my life.
Ha ha ha ha ha. My road over my scars.