I live between white lies and fake smiles over grey smoke in the back seat of a friend's car, not even fully out of town yet. I laugh until black lines run from my makeup, and red smudges off my lips. I see yellow as I stare into the sun, blinding myself. That god awful green is when I count my day's pay, splitting it up into sections for things that'll burn my soul out. Blue, for how I feel after nine both in the morning and night. The further the night goes, the more purple it gets.
There's perks to finding color in everything there is. I found a friend who's a solid electric blue, and another who's so golden that even upset I see the glow. I honestly love seeing these colors, no matter how bright they get.
But there aren't enough cigarettes to darken my hands, nor shots to make colors too blurry. There is enough heartache and flashbacks and tears to make me paint blood red and bruised blue.
In the end, I'm just some insane kid who tries to find hope somewhere within a screwed up life. So desperate that I try to play strings not meant for me, yell at nothing and cry over everything. Maybe this is who I'm supposed to be.
I'm so sorry.
