yo, that's wack if i'm not the baddest


profile * old * mail * fucking sign it* or how about a nice note? you go forward / i'll go backwards


something hit me, like a shovel to the back of the head, leaving dents that were more than noticable. the bandaids would only stick to the hair and rip dry scalp and so we made no attempt to cover it. my cheeks blistered to a rusty red, the type that causes four year olds to point and ask embarassing questions. how worthless i felt, finding you fixing my bicycle tire and knowing, just knowing, that body shouldnt have been built to house you. the doctors pull away the scraps, the excess but their ticky-tacky fingers leave bloody little prints all over the operating room. what i've got, what i've got its not you.
d-land