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let our crooked hands be holy


what you break is what you get
i am a wild child filled with a head of books about punk rock, and biographies about mysterious people. i chainsmoke and am relatively quiet when i'm not nervous. unbrushed hair, spiderleg eyelashes, sunfaded eyes. i laugh at my own jokes, make myself cry and smile at strangers. love child of tank girl and iggy pop, and morrissey as fairy godmother. i grew up in a tiny apartment in queens, with cracking walls and rusty pipes, with two brothers and my parents. i now live in the south, drinking my soul away and falling in love with every boy who calls me pretty. i am unhinged, fearless and careless with the bruises inside my heart and brain and on my legs to prove it. i hang out with crazy criminals, they are the most loving. i'm a closeted fan of romance but i say fuck it. i am prone to useless rambles usually about stories of my life. a feministic sex kitten with nails painted the color of your blood, i will run you dry once i wring you out with my ideas and thoughts. i think outloud, and i never stop writing inside my head. i am a constant discontent living being. i've always been unfit for society's mold, so i've been on the outskirts of social cliques for as long as i could remember. i lose weight to gain it. i wander aimlessly everywhere. i only ever wanted to paint, dream, ride my bike, love, draw, write and make clothes for as long as i could remember. i am not a swimmer, i am not a lover, i am just me. simply human pretending to be more alive than she really is. i didn't just learn to trust people, i just stopped. i leave no impression and am easily forgotten. i just have these words. thank god for the printed word or else i would not exsist.