She turned tricks
Around and around
The same old block
The same old fuck
Not giving a fuck
While giving a fuck
For the prize of coins
He only popped up as a name on the screen a few times. Hello. Hola. Hey. How are you. All the H-words made to start a conversation. She never replied, but sometimes wondered why he bothered trying still. It was only occasionally now, a few random times. He fell in with the others. His name was a bit different though, so some times she kind of remembered she´d seen it before. Mauricio. Hello. Hola. No reply.
Little did she know how much he thought about her. About that one great night. She didn’t even remember the night - or, rather, she did, but in her mind it was the night her friend puked on her shoes and she had to take her contacts out for her, the night in Barcelona, one of many wonderful, drunken, silly nights, a night which details she couldn’t recall but knew she´d had fun. For him it was different. Way different. It was the night The Night, THE NIGHT he met his goddess, his princess, his angel, his queen, the woman who made all those stereotypical stupid names sound just right. He bought her a drink, they danced under the stars. They sat down for a second drink and talked and talked, in flawed spanish and in english, with their eyes as much as their mouths. She was smart, funny, serious, yet light. He tried to be intelligent, humorous, interesting.
They clicked, the talked, they danced, and in a wonderful harmony with the beach and the breeze and the hot summer night, they kissed and became one with the universe. Then her friend needed her, her friend was drunk and with some shady guys. She gave him her number and her name and a hope in his heart, a spring in his step and a smile wider than ever before. The next morning he texted her, he texted her again and called her. Her phone was off and stayed off. He tried her Facebook, he found her. She had a name as unique as her beauty. Her smile greated him from her faebook page, her wit followed suit. He missed her though he hardly knew her, he felt her thought he didn’t know where she was. He could taste her on his lips, feel her in his fibers. She was his. She would be his again. The nights rhythm swelled in his blood, he knew she was thinking about him too.
incomplete, mechanical pencil
Why thank you style.com for being retarded
utah blue sky im listening, im glistening utah blue sky and im gone
Beneath the surface
of faces friends family
Who are you?
Under your skinny figure and fancy clothes
to tell me
blowing carefully constructed hair from your face
you´re better than me
Bigger than me (because you´re smaller than me)
More important than me, more
Successful than me
Yes just who are you?
And who allowed you, constructed the word so that,
Perceive yourself as
All the ugly girls who hide pimples behind
long bangs and pain behind
fake fuck-it-all-attitude, mastering the art of fandom
online, seething pain through
not-so-well-written, thinly disguised metaphors for their own lives fan fiction
and or original (well not so much) novels
about a female hero conquering dragons, virginity and
finding out that she well duh is of course pretty for
no one could ever possibly want to read about an ugly girl,
an ugly girl, like you,
hiding behind bangs and crippling self loathing,
an ugly girl who´ll one day realize
a. appearances are nothing and b. she is worth so much more
than a random pretty face.
For ugly girls who one day realize
for the millionth time that they are indeed not pretty - but for the first time in
their life they too realize that it doesn’t fucking matter
what so ever.