lolitamomo

ears full of pounding rain and a heart thriving off furious spanish, rolling words with a beat running akimbo like wild horses towards a cliff, a pace not even the most skillful drummer could follow—this is the agony of keeping a mild face. on a monday sick day, i can listen to musicbox piano ballads with "goodbye" in the title and look up every rhyming latin word ending in "-ita". my future is laid out before me in irreversible bad habits and crumpled shirts that aren't mine. i've stopped smoking cigarettes entirely but there's so much more weed than before, i sat in the theatre room with roberts for three whole hours saturday night, s

basic stats: i have the gritty mindset of a cult film killer but the body of a waif pixie. i keep my eyes narrow and my views wide, but only if you're blessed with model looks and disease in your blood. wants: sunday mornings where i am real with my daiquiri shakes and my trembling moves, where i can honestly believe the way i outline my phone calls before i so much as dial your number, the way i drink down listerine to clean out the itch inside me, and the way i play games with you just to get a bit closer. gets off to: blood flowers on my neck and blossoms on my hips, the taste of lotus and avocado peels (poison) on the roof of my mouth,