her perspective:
and mine:
i want to die in a lake in geneva, the mountains can cover the shape of my nose. i want to die where nobody can see me but the beauty of my death will carry on so, she doesn’t believe me. when i greet her with kisses when good days deceive me and sometimes with scorn and sometimes she believes me. and sometimes she’s convinced (her friends think she is crazy), get’s scared and calls me but i’m usually hazy. by one in the morning, day is not ended, by two i am scared that sleep is no friend, and by four i will smoke but i cannot feel it, sleep will not come because sleep does not will it and, she doesn’t believe me. morning is mocking her.
she’ll wander the streets avoiding them eats until the ring on her finger slips to the ground. a gift to the gutter, a gift to the city, the veins of which have broken her down. and she doesn’t believe me, morning is mocking her.
all the gods that i believe never fail to amaze her. i believe in the truth of my god of all things, but she finds me wrapped up in all manner of sins; the drugs that deceive me and the girls that believe me.
i can’t control you, i don’t know you well, these are the reasons i think that you’re ill. i can’t control you, i don’t know you well, these are the reasons i think that i’m ill.
and since last that we parted, last that i saw her, down by a river silent and hardened, morning was mocking us, blood hit the sky, i was just happy, my manic and i. i couldn’t see her, the sun was in my eyes, and birds were singing to calm us down. and birds were singing to calm us down. and i’m sorry young girl, i cannot be your friend! i don’t believe in a fairytale end! she doesn’t keep her head up all of the time. she finds she cries when her heart meets her mind.
though i hardly know you, i think i can tell, these are the reasons i think that we’re ill. i hardly know you, i think i can tell, these are the reasons i think that she’s ill. and the gods that i believe never fail to disappoint her. and the gods that i believe never fail to disappoint her.
…though nihilist, my happy girl (my manic) and i have no plans to move on. the birds are singing to calm us down. and birds are singing to calm us down.
and ours: