remember the day you got the gift of your old pen back,
remember they day you lost it cause you pussyed out when the first oppurtunity with a pretty face finally came
my taste buds and my stomach are competing for my attention
my scars are telling stories of people who died for a reason
they didn't even get a chance to get their wings yet
what the fuck can we use to bargain with now
i need to find something else other than ink for memories and reminders to look good in
i just want the safe feeling of knowing it exists somewhere else cause i'm running out jazz to sprinkle with
and I don't know if these coffee and cigarettes are going to last…
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