makenzie

Thunderstorm in my backyard and the rumbles seem a garnish to my sorrow. no thing to fill the void a hole so big it could swallow your whole star intact then spit it out into jagged puzzle shape pieces that do not fit together so sweetly. my own harshest critic but i can't shake the sense that everything i do or say is a mistake wishing i could go back over the script of my self with white-out. i am a typo of flesh, bone, &blood.