We'll Love Again, We'll Laugh Again, We'll Cry Again, and We'll Dance Again
Laceration Poverty.
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No one usually gets why the party goer, actually wants to have fun.
All the time, or every other day.
Why the party goer is as messed up as everyone believes they are.
Maybe even more messed up.
Why they have lacerations all over their wrists and some on their ankles.
How come the party goer's life is so much more worse then everyone else's?
No one gets the life of this party goer.
Or at least tries to understand.
Never go to sleep, with bad dreams and or intentions.
Chances are you'll wake up with them too.
Which happened a couple of times when I was little.
Not dreams though.
These dreams were real.
At least I believe so.
No other dream felt so real in my life.
Try waking up to your dad hovering over you.
Telling you everything was alright.
Then touching you in all the wrong ways.
Yet, when your little, you don't really know what's happening.
You trust your father through it all.
And believe it's the right thing, until you grow older and discover that he was lying.
That all the times you believed your own father, what he was doing to you was so wrong.
You soon become self-consious of everything, and everyone.
Of your closet friends hugging you.
Your boyfriend kissing you.
And especially, being anywhere near your father.
Then when your mom asks what's been going on because you've been acting so different, you tell her it's cause your on your period.
Or your having troubles with your boyfriend, even though that's not the case either.
Sooner or later, people stop asking what's wrong.
They think your just a troubled person not wanting anyone to help anymore.
But, the truth is that you want someone to turn to when you need it most.
Yet, your too damn stubborn to pick up the phone and call your friend.
Better yet, even go to their house.
That is this party goer's problem.
I can't talk to anyone, ever.
About my father, about my feelings, or about my life.
Why do you think I turn to alcohol and drugs on some occasions?
If running that blade against my skin doesn't do anything, booze and drugs will.
Even if it's seperating me away from my best friends.
They never cared in the first place.
You may think it's the bipolar disease talking, but it's not.
I actually took my meds today.
With alcohol.
While my mother and father were sleeping away the day, I was up and drinking away mine.
I think I'd love to die alone.
Gerard Way sang from my iPod as I sat out on my balcony, still drinking.
My Chemical Romance.
The one band in the world that I wish Marie could listen to.
If only she knew.
Oh boy, if only she had a clue.
Soon, her past has to be revealed.
Who she really is.
Where she came from.
And why she was lied to for so long.
Things need to change.
What's the worst that I can say?
I'm not sure Gerard, you can't fucking say much to someone you hardly know.
Never mix pills and booze.
Especially if your bipolar.
It doesn't work out that way.
Another party to go to tonight.
Another lie told to my parents.
More booze and drugs in my veins.
Other then that, I'm also ignoring my best friends.
Let's get fucked up and die.