evafreed13

backslashed backlash playlist heart. breakup song for nothing more then a month of nights, dividing evenly into each other, equaling one another- "what do you want to do" well i don't know about you but i'd maybe like to [kiss you] sit down, awkwardly, on the carpet, play pretend, play like i'm not- [around] tripping over my feet to please you tell you my friends said [you'd be good for me] you never touch me- in public in private in dank dark secret places, [you'd still never want me] [just like] [countless] [ones] [before] guitar pick theft, and i'm cold, [no i don't want your arms, just your sweater] and someday

if your pretty face was a update, limited character peek into your life, you know that'd be something i would like. and darling you abuse your status, your charm and wealth and strength, darling you keep me in stasis, please keep me at arm's length because you keep the mystery alive and it's on things left out, that i thrive your facebook page is empty, your profile is bare, you never let me see pieces of you, your favorite movies just aren't there your heart is a cleared off table, a place for you to shine, darling, you are the oddest oddity, never become mine. in pictures of you, you're always with someone else,

sleeping pills, for my aches and ills, run through my veins, but it's all in vain. those images won't let me sleep, i swear it's been weeks, ball joint dolls, twist and turn, and fall- to their deaths- so i'll lay here, waiting for the love, and i'll force myself awake- for the kick that never comes.

when your coffee stains overlap on my jeans, when my mascara marks your collarbone, when we've eaten nothing but pizza, breakfast/lunch/dinner, we will be qualified. we will sign our forms. we will become domestic, wonderful, and intertwined.

indent, backslash, intent, backlash, you are the cancer, i am the sweetness, you are redundant, and i am a tart. and our pennies combined, still couldn't manage it in time, and our words intertwined, wouldn't make a lie. or a life. or anything, really.

yeah that's not supposed to be you. and no, i don't know who. just- not you. beatrice to my benedic. arthur to my guinevere. darling, fuck you. because i'll stop calling when you start to answer. because when you move your feet i'll call you a dancer. i waited in a silent hall today, i waited where i wasn't supposed to, i wrote of you where everyone could see, and thought of erasing it; i thought of your fingers on my wrist, i thought about your lips on my hair, i thought about your arms on my waist, but i didn't think about the kiss we never shared. because that's your fucking job.

the guitar strings plead with me/ evoking a response, it's easy to see/ my fingernails are too bit down to play/ and i left my picks with you last saturday/ it's foolish to imply/ that you can make me cry with one last kiss/ and it's moments like these, a moment like this/ when i realize i may have made a slip/ and you could never see/ that I'm so happy to be/ the Pete Best to your best-selling band/ and the rest we'll figure out a bit closer to the end/ i made her a friend request thirty three thousand years ago/ when they said that they didn't know/ when the chemicals drip-dripped and the days went by/ and she hoped that this