Crash, crash and fucking crash, if only I were metal made.
Scratching nails down blackboard girl, and as I walk
Thru, people bash me with their jagged bags
But one person, but one bag... but it's still the last straw.
Just to hear someone eating
pushes me to, something sickening... somewhere in the middle of me.
Bell jar? Dust falling!
If only one were red.
If I cant be free, I watch myself atrophy. sickle.
To direct me is to violate me.
Did God make me to be moulded into something set, formulated, factory perfect?
Or did he want to make for me, pain.
Beauty. Pain. Pain, and Pain
And a life of being pale green.