boypunchr

do me wrong—in the end, I won’t do anything to get a “get-back.” Revenge has never been mine to bestow, but my cries will pierce the firmament reaching heavens gate and you’ll watch, slowly, as your life begins to decay. valuables slipping from your grasp for every tear i  shed. That’s how it’s played out —once, twice… be the third, like a charm. Hurt me—it’s okay, I’ll let you doubt how divinely protected I am but you won’t walk away unscathed.  You’ll  rack up a kind of debt that paper money can’t cleanse leaving you stained. Tu mente nunca conocerá la paz—you can call it craft, or whatever helps you sleep at night. escape accountability by lying to yourself and those you hold dear but judgment awaits. a heart with no remorse won’t ever be red.   despite being held by undeserving hands,  I’m full of a love that’ll never run dry so  please, harm me, degrade me, have your fun—you’ll write your fate through that. Just don’t forget to repent for who or what y...

I play the CD I burned—with songs that shouldn’t have been mixed together—while I write pure nonsense, hoping it declutters whatever runs rampant through my head. In four days, I’ll be twenty-four, a year closer to a fully developed prefrontal lobe, yet I still get carded when I try to buy Newport 100s, even though I’m closer to thirty and further from eighteen. I no longer wear makeup to look older. Now, I use it to conceal where time is leaving its mark—my smile lines, the soft tiredness under my eyes… little reminders that I’ve lived through more than I’ll ever give myself credit for.