Your life as revenge.
My life as collateral damage.
Our life as a scrapbook with pages we'd rather forget.
Cling to me. Wild horses couldn't tear me away.
Lie to me.
I said lie to me.
Victoria Merrywether, with eyes as big as the moon and lips that glow
strawberry, she kissed me. On the mouth. Hard.
Peeling damp labels from half-empty beer bottles; I'm that girl in the corner again.
Victoria Merrywether; her hair as flames engulfing her head. Massive. Full of secrets. She stuck her tongue right down to my soul and fished you out. She knows everything now.
My life as a by-product of your life. My life as a blank canvas; your ink running red.
Behind a backcombed wall. Hairsprayed and hidden. Brown this time, the colour of a muddy squirrel, loose change, your eyes. Baby's in the corner. You put her there. She let you. I let you.
She asked me what I was thinking; said I looked sad. I told her I was born that way, my face. The corners pointing south, pouting a little. I said I was born this way; my face was born this way. Poor Victoria Merrywether. She burned alive; the weight of our past on her shoulders. Lips crisped to dark; chocolate dipped strawberries. I kissed her and tasted you. Forbidden you. Me as Veruca Salt.
I read a book about growing up and all I got was a paper cut. I'll go if you'll come with me.
Created: Jun 03, 2010Document Media