Take it how you want

you're a suicide bomber,
blow yourself up in order to go on. Even more dangerous when you're
sober especially when all alone.
another girly apparition,
a doll totally dismembered by fashion. A mix of reality and fiction with
not a purpose nor a goal.
a bottle of tequila, which is drank until your throat is sore. the
scent of pink grapefruit
spreading across the bathroom floor.
a pencil which never stops sketching
the picture, a sunset near home. lips that will never stop stretching,
that skin and bone.
a bit psychotic,
but don't we all have an issue or two. The blood in those gashes is so
hypnotic
and there are so few things to do.
one hundred of frilly dresses,
You try hard not to wear.
ribbons, bows and black laces
which always make people stare.
You are impossible like a locked door
Still left in you some morality just like a virgin whore.
a deadly ride, happening in your head.
The guilt of all the pain hidden
encourages me to join the dead.
But mostly of all, the only thing I can tell
is that you won't fall 'cause you're a living hell.
Stainshane