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87 words couldn't mean a thing. i love you's are simply lies and deceiving. i suddenly puke out more thoughts of my death. i hate these guns in my hands. they often linger until i tear my heart out. a person; a place, a thing. i'm odd; in a stage, where this mask appeals to them all. he can say 87 words to me. and i still wouldn't take them. not today, not for him, not for them. some say i'm odd; strange, deranged, but simply i'm a misfit. i feel out of place in a world that's so socially fake. a fraud. a plate of snakes. each glass of champagne that corrodes their lungs. It's golden sparkling color provokes my mind. the taste is exquisite yet poison to my mouth. it seeps inside. it withers around until it deludes me. it chokes, it holds my hand so swiftly. 87 words and he still thinks i'm here. here, with him. but i'm no longer here. i'm already gone. i can't make you stay or leave. but i know you'll go when im already so slow. my vacant eyes tear my face down. the proximity of my shredded skin is 2 inches apart. tornado old breathes. couldn't bring you to me in a million gazes. and i sit. i sit. i ponder and sit. because i know. oh god, i know. that you'll end up leaving and i don't care what you say. what you think. but you know i'm right. you'll find somebody else. who isn't so odd. and frankly, im alright with that. nobody knows what i am. nobody cares. not even you. you think just by playing nice and friendly that'll be true? i'm vile. i'm manipulative. i'm a god damn riot. and you're just a essay of insincere words. 87 words and you still try. you still speak. to me as if i can't lie. i lie around this kingdom of sorrow. i hold my ground. i don't cry. i don't feel sorrow. I don't feel anything. you could say i do. you could say im wrong. but you don't love me. you don't, you can't, you will never. so pucker up those lips of yours. cause i don't think you're mine. and i know you're not ready. for a riot. a riot like me. 87 words and i'm not what you want. so you mean nothing to me. just as i do to you.