Some people get bit from the inside, when they talk it's cold and sour. And no, there's nothing they can do now. They've had their way too many times. If you glare to get what you want, it'll become your look. If there's dirt you've got on someone, you'll let it loose without a thought. Just let the poison spill, spurt from your throat, hiss like steam, because the pressure is unreal. I'm not saying that it's not. You're causing a scene. You're wearing out that note. You scream until it's gone. You scream until it's gone, gone, gone.
MEGAN. Fifteen years old. Phoenix, AZ. The hellhole of the universe. I want to know you inside out. Obsessed with music. (Music speaks when words are not enough.) Loves pictures. Sings beautifully on the phone. "My Band". The Cure. The Faint. Brand New. "Rough Draft". Otis. Conor. Garrett. Elton John. Michael Jackson. The Used. Road trip. Look out for my next single it's called my salsa. AP. Tim Kasher. Cursive. BEN KWELLER!! I'm out and on the parkway, patient and waiting for headlights, dressed in a fashion that's fitting to the inconsistencys of my moods. Wanna know more? Read the journal.
No government check can reverse it. You'd need a royal eclipse of the tongue. Or is the pain that you endure now something you need? Well, you know how to get it. There's no climbing up that list. You just move down it one by one. You hate this and this and love that it shows. You're insecure, but that's no excuse. Just tell them they lie, you tell them the truth, the things you won't take are coming in groups. The people abused the trust that you had. And now you don't want it back.