I think I have sad lips. I've always loved Wendy Darling and looked for a kiss, or a smile, or something in my lips. They are only sad.
I miss winds that nearly push me to the ground. I feel powerless and truly at mercy, and it's finally justifiable.
In the mornings I pretend to have marionette strings to pull myself out of bed. It doesn't work.
Art is strange and I miss the clay embedded in my skin. It gives me worth and makes me feel warm.
Why am I always so mean? I don't want to be, but I don't know how to stop. Where did my brakes go?
She wants to be like me, but I'm unstable and miserable stuck like this. I almost wish she wouldn't.