Those nights when you can't sleep, look up to the sky and yell "Why me?"

We were laying on the top of your car one night when you said
"this is that kind of love people write about in the books".
                          I knew, then, that you didn't understand a thing about love.

Falling stars were falling and sick people were dying and
                                             love was just a fool's paradise.

The other night you asked me to tell you a story,
                    maybe because the darkness was swallowing you
               and fear was consuming your limbs,
 but even tough I could have thought of a million things to say,
            "I don't know any stories" is what came out of my mouth.


TV really did kill my imagination,
             and memory along with,
                                          didn't it?


It's just, nowadays, there's so much going on!
       There's the new Ipad,
                 the prince's wedding,
                       and all those people dying
            from hunger and violence all over the world.
           It gets so hard to keep on,
                and you never really know anything,
                  too many information and too little neutrality,
         well, knowledge is just another weapon.
    Nobody is really safe.


 So I blurt all this to you and, luckily,
         you're not afraid of the dark anymore.
                  Just afraid of the world.

Wasting time doesn't matter, you're going to die anyway

You gave me your disease, yes.
Growing and multiplying inside me.
They'd call me the Queen of Fertility,
if they could see.
And I keep trying to fight it,
'cause I couldn't prevent it.
They'd call me the Queen of Medicine,
if they could talk.

I wish I could bring myself to care,
but you see, the Blame Game it's getting a little bit old.
And also, I got used to giving things up
after you stole the leftovers
of what we had.

Apologies are for hypocrites

I'm sorry I ruined your dream
                              of being Prom Queen.
I'm sorry I burned down your Barbie house,
                  and drove your Barbie convertible through the fire.
     (Boom!)
I'm sorry for not being sorry, except I'm not.
       I wanted to watch your dreams all burn.
       I wanted to destroy all the things you thought you achieved,
              'cause it's not fair if you don't start from blank.

I'm sorry for wanting your tears, and even more for wanting your screams.

I'm not sorry at all.

metaphorical boy as my nom de plume

The odds of being in a plane crash are of 1 in 187,439.
      The odds of being a castaway are much lower, and yet here
   we are, defying all odds because you wanted
                       to visit your family on Christmas and we had to catch a last-minute plane.
         Now you all know why it can be good to fight over whose parents' house to go on Holidays.
 Except it isn't when a day later you're stuck
                     in a desert island in a completely non-romantic scenario
            and you're at it again, screaming and throwing rocks instead of
                          house supplies at each other.

Home is where you can argue with your lover.

 Our problem is not surviving, it never was. We can both manage
            to lit a little bonfire, thanks to your obsession with
those survival Discovery programs that I always said would never help.
                   Oh, the irony.
                The problem is that there's no way this won't have after-effects,
      and they make dying look like a lovely alternative.

Well, this situation is starting to look like our normal life.

    It's late but I'm not tired, neither are you, but you're putting up that
                                                    same old boring show,
      so you can avoid the awkward talks and the heartbreaking gazes,
          because at this point none of us wants to admit defeat
                           but none of us really won.

  It's always like this with you, I know the protocol by heart,
              I can make you smile but you are never happy,
         and say hurtful things but you never raise your voice.
                              I'll I end up killing myself just to get a reaction out of you.

 I should have known better.

    You believe anything that can't be done with hands,
                 can be done with teeth,
                     and I'm just waiting for you to
                                              bite my head off.
         To take revenge on me for holding onto hope,
                            when you abandoned it while the oxygen masks were falling
                                                                            and the plane was crashing
                                                                            and the people were dying.

Hope is a sinking ship and I have to abandon it, I am no captain.

   I feel like a shell, and you could pick me up
         listen to the sounds of the city,
     the music I sing all day long,
    dreams I had and never shared,
   a way out of here.
                Oh, you'll never pick me up,
                     and I'll be forever in the sea,
                         forever buried in sand.

It keeps you up all night (why are you alive, Columbine?)

Sleep deprivation is much like the side effects of cocaine, thinks Columbine. Only I prefer the latter.
But lately there's so much more of the former- her hands shake, she feels numb, and for the whole day she can't complete even the simplest of the tasks. Great, more wasted time. Like she didn't have plenty of it already.

There are few things Columbine hates more than wasting time (like hiccups and existence).

Sleep deprivation is a constant reminder of what you've done wrong. You're alone in the Universe. All hope is useless. You should just die, it whispers in your ear.

Why are you alive, Columbine?
Where do you think you are going?
Why are you alive?

Act III

I'll be your Frigga One Eye, your Jennifer Hills, your Hayley Stark. I'll make you tear yourself open and then I'll sew you back together, just so I can watch it all again. Over and over until you're nothing but a bunch of fresh scars.

Just like I once was.

That's the thing about revenge, you see: you never get sick of it. It's high octane fuel when you're an adrenaline addict. Not a bright outcome for a pretty girl like me, really.

Act II

                    I never like dogs.

I guess that says a lot about me, doesn't it?

  I don't know. I was never great at reading people,
       the innocence in me keeping me from seeing the evil,
                             the reasons beneath words and actions.
Now I tell myself you can't really know someone,
            but again, maybe I'm just trying to trick myself into feeling
                     better about not knowing something.

    You see, I built my life around knowledge.
                    Until one day, they took all I knew and threw it at the wall,
  it shattered like glass -
                                   the knowledge and the wall
    that all that knowledge had built around me,
                         until I was surrounded by words, words, words,
                             thick and solid like red suburban bricks,
                                            and they meant nothing,
                                                      for I couldn't see.

   Thus I find myself free, and find a new land,
               new adventures, but I've become
                                empty again, and I walk around confused.
         Should I fill myself back again? If so,
                                           what should I stuff me with?

             Or should I stay empty until a sign comes to me?

                          Well, I can only hope it isn't a dog.