When it Hits

When it Hits 

I smoke imaginary cigarettes at 1 am. 
I write my heart out on my wrist.
I love having the darkness consume me.

The moon never seems to hide her face from me.
The sun seems intent on burning me.

I am the child who hides away in the shadows. The one constantly berated by everyone and anyone. I shy away from the light since it has never been my friend. 

Tattoos fascinate me. Pain fascinates me. Colors fascinate me.

You see those girls in the movies who cry a lot? I'm not one of them. I'm a cold, calculating and manipulative bitch. 
But don't mistake that for heartlessness. I have a heart. Bent, broken and shattered. But then, it's normal. And beating. And therefore I live.

I wonder where the freaks go at night. You see, I'd like to follow.

I think I played Russian Roulette as a child, in another life. 
I think I drank vodka with poison in rose colored glasses.
I think I danced in the pale moonlight, barefoot.
But that was another life.

I think I'll go swimming in the middle of a thunderstorm one time. Then dance on top of a frozen lake and set a forest on fire.

But maybe some other time. 
When I can walk a straight line. 
And fix my thoughts.
And hear myself speak.
But then again, that's for another time.