oh god you're a fucking joke just shut up and let me tug on your hair big boy
she says when she's lonely and he tries to find something more
in her eyes than the color brown.
she's messy and she likes it-- feeling disheveled and unleveled and off kilter
trying to hold on to flat walls walking through grungy rooms
searching for the toilet.
the music is oppressive and stretches, warping through closed doors
while she finds fleeting peace in sitting on cold dirty porcelain
then falling on the floor.
what the hell am i doing here what the hell am i doing here she chants
wanting to get out of her own stupid head
because alcohol has trapped her mind in a corner
and she cannot find her warm bed.















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