I want to bleed until I weigh so little that my feet leave the ground and I
can fly up high enough to feel more important than I really am.

I want to eat mirrors and save the world just once, maybe in tights and a
matching cape.

I want to attend a party in the late 1800's, be sickly fake, wear satin
gloves and sip at crappy champagne with my pinky raised. The dress, the
dress, the dress.

I want to hunt down my unconscious flaws and throw spears and arrows and
sharp little rocks and laugh bitterly because I know they will end up
inside you, your bleeding holes.

They tasted like citrus kisses on broken skin.