headchecks

i'm a mean bitch. i know this, and i'm sorry.

i'm a mean bitch. but still, you go out of your way to say hi to me.

i'm a mean bitch. i'm ugly, fat, and dumb.

i'm just a mean bitch.

It's such a useless thing: A letterman without a jacket. I'm such a useless thing: A lonely fag without companion.

It doesn't really mean anything, that purple, black, and gold. A one and nine stuck on the sleeve, that champion patch on my heart, it's not worth any money.

I can get my name embroidered, but they still won't use it. I can get the inside quilted, but it'll still be cold.

That entire team doesn't care if I live or die. And some of them probably prefer the latter.

kanske kan vi bli perfekt pojkvänner men jag vet inte om han gillar mig jag önskar att han var gay

varför är du en jävla fjortis? varför är jag en man? jag vet att det här är fel men det här är min cell

du borde kanna dig speciell ingen annan vill ha dig lika mig perfekt pojkvänner

when i peel my skin back, am i more attractive? when i peel my skin back, am i still ugly?

what if i had no fat had no muscles had no bones

what if we were only colors are we complimentary? do we mix perfectly?

when i peel my skin back, and when you peel back yours i think we're two parts of one whole but i'll never have the proof

I catch you staring at me in the locker room. You're a shoe size 12 and a half, but you're also a freshie and a half.

Your dark, shining, curls of hair light eyes: blue or green? No clue. You wear your hat high on your head.

I can't have this happen again, I should know by now. Romance always finds its end in the locker room.

But my mind conjures up images— vivid, lucid love. I'm laying my head on your chest, and we're each others' other half.

maybe i should write a song, name it after you it's catchy like pnumonia filling up my lungs

maybe i wasn't meant to hear anything you said you'd rather be in a grave than be a fucking queer

what if i just cut my legs off my arms off my head off a black dahlia, plucked apart bleeding, drained directly from my heart

what if i just dropped dead my art is nothing special everything has been made before what if i just dropped dead? the world would keep running— my presence is only an inconvenience to myself.

i only feel happy under the influence i'm closer to dying but hey, it feels better than i usually do.

physical pain is the pain i prefer the flavor isn't bitter, isn't sour it's the type of pain that i know how to handle with some ice, some pressure, some time.

i miss you a lot under the influence you're so far away but hey, it feels better than i usually do.

can i be part of your team? i promise not to bother i'm okay with sitting on the bench

can i be part of your team? i know you can't say no i'm okay with being tolerated

if i pay half my pride, do i get to wear a jersey? do i get to pretend that i won?

if i pay with my life, do i get to love you sweetly? is it intricate enough?

can i be?

i still have a distorted memory of you. i remember we skated together. i remember you convinced me to start playing hockey. i remember you buying me ice cream. five years ago, i know things can change. but still, after four, you won't consider me? i know that sounds stuck up—three years is the max. but two me you were my number one.

i still have a distorted memory of you. i remember i asked if you were gonna go. i remember i asked if i should ask. i remember you cut me off. then at that time, i realized that this team is just pretending to love me and accept me they just wanted $400 squeezed out of me.