My body is haphazard stitches and broken bones. Tear me to shreds, I no longer fear an injured heart. This one shattered long ago.
My skin is patchwork veins, open wounds, and I cannot keep my tongue from lolling out. Spitting, screaming, it has a will all its own.
My mind should be compared to drops of rain, pattering to the ground at random interludes of cloud and sky.
Because, like them, my thoughts fly and fall at random, never striking the same spot twice.
My feelings are composed of watercolors, bleeding into each other, until even the ignorant child who mixed them cannot tell the red from the green.
I don’t know if I personally like this one too much. I just found it in an old journal and I added a little to the beginning