𝐦𝐨𝐨𝐧𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐞

iv

he's poppin' pills past his cherry stained lips as though they're cream candies, and he is something innocent - even though the blood-caked nails n' raw eyes give away any factors of the boys purity. with a tongue so numb and a mind even more so, he closes those pained, bluebell eyes and waltzes with the devil.

eyes intent on nothing but the void around him, the boy dreams of pretty girls with pale lips n' nicotine addictions. girls that waste their lives away wishing for sex and money and inevitable happiness, although only get the first, and a lot of it. he dreams of the soft curves over their light complexions and the taste of forbidden fruits between their thighs - the euphoria on their skin as though it's a tangible thing. even though he knows those girls are too problematic and broken for his already fractured ego

he's got sadness wedged between every open wound in his skin, and it's suffocating, and somewhere deep within him he knows that these pretty girls with their fake smiles n' eyes stamped out with cigarette butts can not help him, that they too are far too fragile and broken- that they're just porcelain dolls with peach flushed skin and broken hearts. yet, there's no stopping the addiction of cherry flavoured lips once you've tasted them.

broken boy has bitches waiting left n' right for him. men, women, anyone who's willing to kiss away the pain until it's bearable. he's humming in tune with the music playing softly somewhere in the room - although he thinks that maybe music is not playing at all and it's simply a coping mechanism- and his mind is drifting further and further away from his scarred reality.

with a joint perched between his elegant fingers it's almost as if the world is standing still for once, no more caving in oppressions to amplify the sadness that resides within him eternally. the trees don't loom over ominously, nor to the plastic doll- like  people with all their moral values and reputations seem as hate-filled and judgemental. he smiles: a crooked, boyish grin that makes all the boys n' girls sigh in content and wish to lean closer to taste the peach and tobacco that dance on his lips. he's something of a mystery to them all, and in a little town as run down and principled as the one they reside in, mystery is something to crave. the thrill of the unknown is mouth-watering.

he stays up all night wondering why he's so tired , why everything is so repetitive and exhausting. wake up , work, smoke, sleep. repeat. and within the rhythm, there is an element of such inevitable sadness that threatens to rip the boy apart. deprived of sleep and love and all things sweet in this cruel word of ours, he only wishes for something new. something to hold onto when he's gonna cry, something to show him comfort in the bare hours of the night when he's restless and has his mind consumed by such ungodly thoughts. something to tell him pretty little lies that make his heart falter.

bare sugar and his name between ur gnarled teeth, whisper him butterscotch flavoured kisses and press ur bones against his own. tell him how beautiful all of his insecurities are, and then press ur peachy lips against every inch of his gorgeous body. show him his worth, and heal the wounds.

kiss the boy, don't make him cry.

NOTE
this is all over the fucking place
i apologise deeply. also i'm so
sorry for my lack of updates, i've
just been kinda busy n shit, but
expect more soon because i've
realised that writing really does
help me express shit and keep
my mind healthy. i love u.
comment ur thoughts.