I don't want this anymore. I don't want this anymore. I don't really want to be here just now. I don't want any of this, it reminds me too much of way back when. Way back when, now you remind me of him. Maybe it's my fault, maybe I cast you in exactly the same role as him, turned you into something else, that he couldn't be either. I couldn't have realised quite how destructive this was, except I know, I know. Can't remember. Really, can't remember.
I feel sick & shaking, just didn't know quite what I'm doing, I was doing, or exactly where I was. And where did trying to explain all of this get me? "Take care Kylie". Don't do something stupid, now that I know what you're like, self-indulgent and just a little bit cliche. I wish there was someone else inside of this, outside, to tell me how to do this, how to get out. Or view it from outside and inside, see the whole picture; let's carefully explain about how this should be. I don't care, I don't care about it at all. What's wrong with me, can't do that. Can't do that. But, what the fuck do you know, really? Then again, more than me. This is nothing, it means nothing. Can't get over it. I'm weak and self-involved enough to be shaped by nothing, all suffocating and wrapped round my throat, lacing the airways, suffocating in the most beautiful way. I don't know how I manage to do it. Can't work out now, why I want to see the whole picture. Don't have a personality, don't have any arguments, not anymore. It's slipping away, just so that I don't always recognise what I'm looking at. No one's arms to collapse into. Nothing at alllll, and you'd want to know me why? Something that hurts, it doesn't make itself real, and there really isn't anything more to be said. I care a little less, except caring too much for you, and that. That it hurts, like my personality climbed out of the black hole in the bottom of my stomach and has, had a tentative grip, it doesn't take very much, a brief subtle, beautiful punch to the stomach and it all slips away, and drains the colour from my face and the warmth from my hands, sucks away my concentration, anything that made me, it's gone, a bruised, flawed shell wrapped up in clingfilm, or something. To many different parts to address and can't do it all at once. I couldn't sleep last night, and I knew that it wouldn't work, that you'd excuse yourself again. I'm not your star. S'pretty. I can't remember any fucking politics and thinking about letting you down hurts too much, but you'll never know that.
My methods generally aren't very popular. It doesn't mean anything at all. There is nothing there and no one ever stays, no one ever got far enough. just to stop, that'd be nice. it scares me though, because what else does that mean?

You know it's right;
It's time to go, to
Shangri-La-Laithy-Moo

Things are pretty there.

Feeling:
Listening to:
Pretending:

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