max.
Your hair’s on fire, my skin perspires From every branch and every briar Sticking out of my heart of stone. I pray to god it won’t turn you cold. But there’s a different way I love you. It’s different from the way I normally do. I smile like I have a secret. Because I do. And it’s you. You’re something to hide, something to protect From every evil, every effect That collects and if I detect A possible suspect Who will interfere with your perfect reflection Our perfect connection Then I’ll come to your rescue like prizefighter Instead of a lo

bits and pieces of brain ii.
“Hello?” “IRIS!” “Hey, Maxwell!” “IRIS!” “How was your day?” “IRIS!” “Hahaha, you’re so cute.” “IRISSSSS!” “Why do you like girls like them?” “I guess you’re right, they are bitchy… But they look so good.” “Adom. You’re the most shallow person I’ve ever met.” “…Am I really?” “You like someone for their body. Not for their minds, or lack thereof.” “Iris, why do you hate

plastic.
You know, kid? You’re really something else. Really. Good show. It makes so much sense that even though you know full well that she’s a bitch and a slut, you’re still going after her like she’s a piece of meat. Well, guess what, Adom. You mean nothing to her. I’m sorry to say it, and I wish it wasn’t true, but god. I something wish you would love me so that you could be loved. Because you’re certainly not loved by her. She only loves herself, sex, and whoever will give her sex. And you’re not one of those people. Please. Please, for once listen to me. I’m begging you to take a step back from all of your realities and

paper towns.
The glow of the city lights. So fake and full of fear. By day, these cities are rushed through by the hustle and bustle of getting from here to there. There to here. And the people move through the paper towns. And their paper hearts beat in synch with the crowd, and their cut-out mouths don’t make a sound, and their drawn on eyes always look down. But in the dark of the night, the paper towns illuminate with luscious and luxurious lights. And there’s a pseudo-beauty of contrast. And the night crashes and thrashes and thrusts itself upon the cities. And all the people peek out, searching for something beyond getting fro

piñata.
Have you ever gone to a four-year-old’s birthday party? Where the parents think it’s a marvelous idea to string a paper mache animal from the ceiling and have the children take turns smashing it. And oh, how they have such a blast! They get their eyes choked and they can’t see what they’re doing. And maybe that’s the point. Maybe that justifies it. And they spin round and round as the anticipation for decapitation grows strong and fierce within them. And they swing drunkenly at where they think it might be hiding. Swing, miss. Swing, miss. Swing, hit. There’s tears. “But pinatas can