I'm a decaying piece of organic matter, but you can call me Claire. I'm a bookworm, isolated in the depths of non-reality, I live in splotches of color and orangey sunsets-- sometimes even in the absence of color at all, like a boring newspaper spread on Sunday mornings. I breath and long, intricate sentences come out, weaved neatly of beautiful adjectives and solemn metaphors. I whisper activism in my deepest sleep. I am alive in the most ways possible, I have an eye for beauty and an ear for music. I sit alone sometimes and ask the world why I'm here, and I still haven't got much of an answer. I will never give up on asking. I will never stop thinking, and I like that about myself.
Fuck.
When you look into my eyes,
Do you see blue? Or do you see sad?
I am sitting in a room devoid of sunshine
Locked away in this fucking prison you seem to put me into.
I don’t remember letting you do this, but I must’ve, because you think it’s okay.
It’s hard to see the real sun through eyes clouded by your stupid ignorant face.
Is it always about you?
Is it really necessary to make life your problem?
Fuck, when did I let your life become mine?
When you look at me do you see an offender? Can’t you tell I’m crying?
