Look in the mirror and describe what you see.
How about what I *don’t* see?
It’s some pillock, dressed in gabardine and wingtips, that one day will have some equally fucked up frightened little cow look up to him and I’m going to get her killed. On purpose. And when’s all said and done, I’m going to go home, have a shag, scribble a few insincere, unimportant lines in some journal and then tuck it up in the library to be forgotten until some other big bad that reminds someone of something causes a fucker after me to pull the book and read it.
And that little bitch who trusted me with her life, because I told her too, because she doesn’t know what the fuck happened to her, and why she has to fight so hard, so much? That little whore, well, she rots under the peat.
And when I look in the mirror, I’m going to smooth out that tweed, straighten those glasses (there’s always bloody glasses), and go about my day. I’ll marry. Some nice little tart who never tries to argue, and completely bores me, who gasps at blood and giggles at parties. Some lady who gardens. She’ll give me a kid. Boy or girl it don’t matter. It’ll have the right name and really it’s just a warm body. Armies need warm bodies, that’s what grandmum says, more so then it needs generals.
I speak three languages, and learning two more. I can summon the four elements. I know more about what goes bump in the night, and how it breeds, if it loves, what it eats, and how to kill it then you will ever know about your wife or husband, or kid, or parent. I can tell you about ways to die you’ve never dreamed of, and pains and places you don’t know to be afraid of.
I’m twenty-one years old and I have nightmares because of what I see when I look in the mirror. Not me. The dyed hair, rings, or bruises. Fuck em. It’s that dead look. I’m a kid. I shouldn’t have seen the things I have. I shouldn’t have been asked to do half the things I was.
I won’t be him. He doesn’t get out. You want another warm body, grandmum, dad…find someone else.
When I look in the mirror I wanna see me.
I’m thin, there’s too many bruises, too much weed and red eyes from the uppers and I’m kind of shaking from the trips, got the scars on my arms from the brothel visits, couple of them would recognize the surname and shit, I imagine if they knew who they were sucking off…
I’m a fuck up but I’m not a killer.
It’s some pillock, dressed in gabardine and wingtips, that one day will have some equally fucked up frightened little cow look up to him and I’m going to get her killed. On purpose. And when’s all said and done, I’m going to go home, have a shag, scribble a few insincere, unimportant lines in some journal and then tuck it up in the library to be forgotten until some other big bad that reminds someone of something causes a fucker after me to pull the book and read it.
And that little bitch who trusted me with her life, because I told her too, because she doesn’t know what the fuck happened to her, and why she has to fight so hard, so much? That little whore, well, she rots under the peat.
And when I look in the mirror, I’m going to smooth out that tweed, straighten those glasses (there’s always bloody glasses), and go about my day. I’ll marry. Some nice little tart who never tries to argue, and completely bores me, who gasps at blood and giggles at parties. Some lady who gardens. She’ll give me a kid. Boy or girl it don’t matter. It’ll have the right name and really it’s just a warm body. Armies need warm bodies, that’s what grandmum says, more so then it needs generals.
I speak three languages, and learning two more. I can summon the four elements. I know more about what goes bump in the night, and how it breeds, if it loves, what it eats, and how to kill it then you will ever know about your wife or husband, or kid, or parent. I can tell you about ways to die you’ve never dreamed of, and pains and places you don’t know to be afraid of.
I’m twenty-one years old and I have nightmares because of what I see when I look in the mirror. Not me. The dyed hair, rings, or bruises. Fuck em. It’s that dead look. I’m a kid. I shouldn’t have seen the things I have. I shouldn’t have been asked to do half the things I was.
I won’t be him. He doesn’t get out. You want another warm body, grandmum, dad…find someone else.
When I look in the mirror I wanna see me.
I’m thin, there’s too many bruises, too much weed and red eyes from the uppers and I’m kind of shaking from the trips, got the scars on my arms from the brothel visits, couple of them would recognize the surname and shit, I imagine if they knew who they were sucking off…
I’m a fuck up but I’m not a killer.