we are the black eyes and the tired make up. we are the children of the late nights, the dirty mornings. we are amnesiacs, insomniacs, but we are not maniacs. we are the left behind, the forgotten, the children hiding under the staircase.
we never noticed that we were heading in this direction. we blinked once, twice and found ourselves outsiders. with our stockings caught on the brambles, we are fast becoming careless, catching our elbows and ankles on the corners.
we are always the desperate. hidden behind our fringes and fear, all we wanted was to be looked at, really looked at. puzzled over. conversed with. we are curled in the dark alleys and illicit novels. and all we ever really wanted (apart from the world) was a meaning that was never within our grasp. or maybe it was, but we were so blinded, are so blinded by insecure habits that we can't steal it. we don't want to be fucked up like all the other wannabe artists, we are fucked up by natural clumsiness and years of absent mindedness. any art we made was not product of our problems, but hamfisted attempts at killing those problems. (some of it was pure rage though.)
and we were born in the early hours of the morning, so we are always awake at sparrows fart, hoping for rebirth. we are bruised from thoughtless pinches, our fingernails gnawed. unlike our peers we suffer from undersexing, underpants wet from thoughts we are only thinking, never actualising. our hearts pump cold blood and warm whiskey, and our bodies move to dirty beats. so that we could embody all that is evil within us.
and we chose to do this, because what else are we going to do?