Mrs. James Bond, I don't know why but I don't expect you to talk I expect you to die. For you've already survived a thousand micro-suicides. Cronus is not on your side, you cannot cross this Bridge of Sighs, you're affiliated with The Lord of Flies more than caffeinated with all that lies beneath your cross moon. Standing underneath your bedroom window they've watched the glow go right out from your eyes it's distinctly extinguished anguish now occupies; psychosis, leaks from the sides. All your ride or die bitches go on their own rides, leaving you behind with your ever growing paranoia even the stars will soon disown ya, 'cause you can't prioritize and you can't mature and every thing you say has the substance of manure but the worst thing ...
Where conspiracy theories meet feminist theories. (And sometimes there's poems).