You said "I'm calling you from a pay phone in my own personal outback. It's all sunflowers and grass as tall as the sky. If you'd like I could cut my skin and let happiness pour past your teeth and down your throat." What it takes to be happy, I don't know. I just know I'm really good at faking it. I'd be content with being content. I feel suffocated by summer skies and choking skin, French kiss my memories, cause the currents will not do. I can take rejection from you but not from my own self. To adore is to be weak, so let me apply my lies over my eyelids and graze your mascara-ridden eyelashes, like crumbs dropping to the ground to be stepped on, spat on and crushed into nothing, forgotten within the second, though to be forgotten means you would have to have been remembered to start off with. If that's the case, then I beg that you forget me.
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