fuck off

Sometimes, sometimes i think too much, write too much, and love too much. I splatter my walls and pages and skin with emotions. this world is always going to hold so much back, and now I want to let everything go. I tried so hard to be that person that stood in the shadows like the secret russian spy trying to hide so much from everyone but now, now everyone knows what kind of cigarettes i smoke, they know that I switched from whiskey to vodka and they know where each and every one of my tattoos are. They know I got rid of his baby, that I cried the night before in the bathtub, that I wrote it all down-that I miss you still. I write too much down and say too much out loud and whisper too many i love you's while you're sleeping. But this is me and this is how I am and what do you expect me to say about you?