You sleep coiled; tightly wound. Hands are fists beneath pillows, clenched above cotton sheets. You are at war, even in your dreams.

I hate small talk. I want to talk about atoms, death, aliens, sex, intellect, the meaning of life, far away galaxies, music that makes you feel different, memories, the lies you’ve told, your flaws, your favourite scents, your childhood, what keeps you up at night, your insecurities and your fears. I like people with depth, who speak with emotion from a twisted mind. I don’t want to know what’s up.

Be fucking selfish. I don’t think people get told this enough and it’s kind of sad. Selfish doesn’t always mean in a bad way, sometimes putting yourself first is important. Heck, I say do it all the time.

“Who made you this way? And do they still matter?”

I may not kill anyone, but I have never been afraid to take what I need to survive.

                                     and behind the mask of m a t u r i t y                                                        that you wear,                                     a pair of eyes belonging to a ( CHILD )                                          stares back at you in the mirror.