My name is Birksu. I am seventeen years old.
It’s not that complicated.
I write because I am lonely because I don’t have anything to do with my hands, nothing to touch, to squeeze, to break.
I don’t care if you do or don’t, puffing smoke, la-la-la.
Do not even talk to me unless you really want to tell me everything.
I am interested in big things, in weight, in lightness, in secrets, in diaries, in beauty, don’t think I am a nice, kind, thing that’s only what you see and you aren’t ever here
My thoughts race even when I am getting fat, fuck y’all, fuck your self image issues and boring lives and you’re I wish I could be like that, write like that, why can’t you? You’ve got two hands, your brain probably hasn’t been fed nearly as many drugs
You’re still young, stop making excuses, not interested, pick me up, drive me anywhere, let me sleep in your bed, bring me to a party and i’ll get drunk enough to actually answer questions with lies and then i’ll hit on someone beautfiul because I am weak because some lines can be so straight, so exact, so cute, it’s just a line but it’s such a beautiful line, i want to make it mine.
And so it goes on, time passes, people talk shit, I just do nothing, wait for something to happen, wear a watch, sleep too much, make everyone hate me, told you so, told you that you had me all wrong…
