Graveyard Girl
Wednesday, September 03, 2008Graveyard Girl
Death is her boyfriend
She spits on summers and smiles to the night
She collects crowns made of black roses
But her heart is made of bubble gum
Graveyard girl
She spits on summers and smiles to the night
She collects crowns made of black roses
But her heart is made of bubble gum
Graveyard girl
Graveyard girl
This same person smells like baby powder, blows up a storm with her nose, dances in a strange and whacky way, pretends to have mind-controlling power like a certain powerful mutant, then gets high over rice dumplings and Kinder Bueno chocolate bars. This same person also enjoys reading comic books, was proud to be a librarian, even prouder to have been a brownie and a girl guide, not to mention being the teacher's pet and the worst punishment ever for her was two hours of doing nothing on a bench. She lives on the far side of the world, in a place where the climate works in synch with Johor's, where airplanes blink in the skies but never heard. It's next to a secluded beach, where the nearest civilization is next to nothing at all. Everything is a dozen miles away, tucked away in a small forgotten corner where the runways begin. I wonder if the lights I saw on the mainland from the accused island belonged to her neighborhood, if any one of those tiny little artificial stars came from her messy fortress of a bedroom. There is something comforting to know that in my darkest hours, the brightest of the people I know really wasn't all that far away.
Dark rags and red stars
She's the dirty witch of her high school
She worships Satan like a father
But dreams of a sister like Molly Ringwald
Graveyard Girl
Graveyard Girl
This person has a love affair with orange juice, a fruit that I hate with a passion, hates the color of pink, and has the same anal standards about english as myself. She has all the songs locked in her head, batteries are not required to play them over and over all through the night. This same person's prized possessions include an autographed Death Cab for Cutie bag, an autographed Death Cab for Cutie album, random soft toys on her bed and living dead dolls underneath the table. She is deathly afraid of ghosts and monsters, the creepy entrance to her parents' bedroom, the idea of drowning, pain of any kind, hunger, starvation, and anything that may potentially cause long periods of discomfort. She wears shoes that are two sizes too big, has the tolerance for hunger two sizes too small, and has a pair of eyeliners perfectly drawn almost everyday of the week. She cuts her own hair, ties her own shoe laces, is terrified of strange buses in Singapore, and confuses trains with buses and buses with trains. She has the tendency to check which is left and which is right most of the time, and loves the sound and smell of rain when they fall on the window sill.
This same person also has a hidden talent at playing the guitar, and she does seem to have a new found love affair with Josephine (my guitar) and Taiwanese instant noodles. She makes her own lemon juice with crushed lemon and ice at Pizza Hut, divides the garlic bread fairly in between two people, cooks pasta (linguine please) on her own and prepares dinner from time to time. Dinner could range from anything between roast chicken to biscuit with tuna, or just an entire bag of rice dumplings and iced orange juice in a darkened bedroom. She stares at little children just to scare them away, but she is mortally terrified of guys who'd stare at her in classrooms and public transports. She prefers the corner in any elevators in Singapore, and doesn't like mirrors being placed in front of a bed or anything that may trick her eye into thinking about ghosts and monsters. The person would love to do one of the following things before she dies: be a wine taster, fly first class in SIA, visit Canada, visit Switzerland, kill someone.
"I'm gonna jump the walls and run, I wonder if they'll miss me?
I won't miss them. The cemetery is my home,
I want to be a part of it, invisible even to the night.
Then I'll read poetry to the stones, maybe one day I could be one of them.
This same person is a friend of mine, someone whom she'd kill last if it comes right down to it. She thinks that my ten dollar note trick is the lamest thing she has seen in the world, and yet she wags her index finger from left to right and calls it "Shakespeare". She spoils jokes and stories by predicting their outcome, loves movie spoilers and has the strange ability to sit through horrendous musicals even if they suck donkey balls. This same person has the worst cellphone in the world, never lies though doesn't tell the whole truth, feels that laziness trumps everything else, and thinks of herself as the epitome of lazy. The same person went through phases of horrible mainstream bands, still dances around in a strange and whacky fashion, and knows the word to every verse and every chorus. This same person loves photography and cooking, but she'd rather work than to do housework unlike her mother. Her mother is a cancer and her father is a cancer, and she is going to bring back a bottle of sand from Australia very soon in the weeks to come.
This same person spent a day with me today, a day that is special in ways only a wordless song could describe. This same person gets me, and disregards my quirks and peculiarity. Anyway, I have pretty much ran out of random facts about this same person for now, though I am sure I left out a whole lot more. Perhaps until the next time when we meet, perhaps we could write them all down in black and white. Before then, however, I shall settle on the fact that there is a person who accepts me, and that's really as good as it gets, as far as I am concerned.
Wise and silent
Waiting for someone to love me.
Waiting for someone to kiss me.
I'm fifteen years old, and I feel it's already to late to live.
Don't you?"
Graveyard girl
Graveyard girl
This entry was posted
on Wednesday, September 03, 2008 at 11:31 PM.
You can skip to the end and leave a response.
