chipmunku

what became of them? the crinkly, crackely souls i have cast from me, like shells exhausted of the sound inside? i think not of them often- those selves that wane, for your oceans are enough to keep me well quenched, and my northstar still casts its lot with the unfaithful west. but by far, my favourite theory: she keeps them about her neck, locketbound. the key, she slightly less than misplaced somewhere between her keepsake box and the rest of the world.

i see my hazels in all your abstractions. then again, perhaps that's the only place I'm really looking for them. you'd never ask, but the answer is... I still misplace countless i.stories ii.tears for you between my star-streaked cotton sheets. Ours was a strings-attached situation. and it only takes one string to hang myself from the lingonberry tree outside your window.

your name translates (loosely, mind you) to parisian sunshine. only, Paris had the real thing and all you had was a string of cotton. everyone said you were stupid (an idiot) for trying to put a band-aid on my drama-ridden  carnage. but there's a me inside you; she narrates your peripheral vision. scan the horizon once, babe, and tell me if what you really see isn't the litter from the corner of your eye.

leaching sodium chloride with her hands in her pockets. he sits with the white-wash-gun held in fingers that smell of her. apathetic as she  spills her soul across his pillowcase. four-letter mumblings beneath nicotine breath, and she is wondering how betwixt the sleepless nights she finds solace in his arrogance.

Yeah, This little girl can't keep her stories straight, What? You know I'm everything you love to hate. (She's bad in a good way, And she makes the best mistakes) I am the best mistake. She always wanted something to be jealous of, (jealous of) Always in love, With someone she'd never met. She always wanted something to be jealous of, (jealous of) But baby, You haven't found him yet. I tell white lies, But you know that there aren't shades of truth, Familiar disguise But masks won't keep me off of you I tell white lies But you know all I want is the truth, And my green eyes Show me everything inside of you. I tell white

I'm an awning-bound baby, all denim and dopamine. You're sporting a cardigan, and a knack for trigonometry. Toaster waffle junkies, with blue eyes. I bridge the canyon between our lips on tip-toe: (It is more than three inches, but less than thirty miles) My subdermal south-sun shows through sometimes, and you're arterially Scandinavian. I count the stars, and you count down from 9 to 5. Statistically, baby, we're damned.

I'm a blackeye, sexier the next morning in your boxer shorts. sexier when your girlfriend calls. she knows you're not alone, and the look in your eyes gives you up. i run my fingers down your ink-skin, as your excuses play out like an afternoon special. click and she's gone. You're a cigarrete, sparks fly when you light up, sparks like worship, because you're worth it. But now I'm taking drags off filter. You're a man now, with dog's eyes. Those say its not my fault, even though you'll tell her it was. sigh and the ember's out.

i read Greek tragedy. is it different between goddess' sheets? do you take little pieces of her, with you when you leave? i read Greek tragedy. where everyone is in love, with everyone but their lovers. like you are in love with everyone but me. i read Greek tragedy.