we're weary of your name

[thejunipertree]

Attempting to dye my hair, once again. It better be properly blue black by the time I'm finished or there will be one hell of a foot stomping.

After this, I plan on lounging on my bed with a copy of "The Church of Satan" by Blanche Barton. I do so love a good comedy.

My mood lifts slightly throughout the day, but settles back down around my shoulders by the time my feet hit home ground. I read words and speak thoughts and blink my eyes against the setting sun of their voices, but nothing can quite shake away the always on the edge breaking of tears.

I need to cry. But, I'm refusing. I almost always refuse. And I never let anyone see me like that.

There's a dead end before me, the only direction I can take is back. But, I always swore I'd never walk previous roads. My feet don't like familar ground and neither does my brain. The paths are my manners and thoughts, I don't wish to double back and start the journey over again. It's always harder the second time go round.

Cigarette, out.
Girl, in shower.
Black dye, on skin.