By now I believe you know the darkest of my secrets many of which lie behind the series of somewhat-unintentional fuck you's i gladly engraved on your skin. Despite your welcoming lines and your beautiful, white page glow, you've failed at giving me a voice. The head above my shoulders isn't a solid one, but rather a head thats been covered up in slew of darkenss. this conversation isn't one to dwell in my unforgiving hate for the world, this conversation is meant to finally say what i've been repeating my whole, unsuccessful and shameless life; I AM A SPEC OF DUST. i'm nothing more than the crumbs on your shirt that you so elegantly sweep off with your graceful hand. i'm nothing more than the dirt between your finger and your nail. i'm not a graceful dancers or a singer with a soul, i am everything that has been and never will be.
i have plans for the future and stories for many tomorrows.
stay tuned, diary.
forever yours,
______________
p.s. dont attempt to drown me in the beauty i have ignored.
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There's an eloquence to the way you write, I'm envious.
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