I am picking up little pieces of myself from my back and shoulders. My bleached scalp is stating a mass suicide. The skin is falling off in protest of the tortured it endured two nights ago, when I decided to go blonde. Sometimes, dyeing your hair is the best type of therapy. That may sound awfully girly for my accustomed attitude, but I like to feel pretty. And the original brunette short hair due was dragging and boring. It spoke of nothing.
I wish I lost a pound for every time I’ve cried. And I didn’t drive everyone away from me. I wish I was a girl who is worthy of receiving endless love and arise illusions of a great tomorrow in a lover’s mind. I wish I could easily let the hurting words slide of my crooked back. The road ahead swivels and curves but is endless. I wish I would had broken down with measure, have someone who would listen to my sorrow. An emotional dry branch, afraid of tomorrow. A fickle persistent moth, closing into the light. I lie awake and watch everything go by and by. And I am a small fawn, woodland natured. An illustrator, an artist’s venture.