girl with the almost blond hair and the deep gray eyes that only sparkle blue in July. It's December and it's cold and close to everything sucks. I guess that makes sense because December and depression both start with the letter D, and they're both pretty damn annoying.
But girl, if I keep rambling on about it all I'm going to cause things to down slide just a little more and January will take a little longer to get here.
Anyway, it's December and you're freezing inside your own skin because mother dearest promised a new home, and a new room, and a place to rest your head. Well, I'm guessing she didn't know that everything in your world is "almost" or "close" or "soon". Next week, always means six months and tomorrow always means next week. Sometimes you want mother dearest to get the hell away from the damn herbs and start picking up on her kids' habits. December wouldn't be so cold on your heart if there was somewhere you could just be alone and warm.
It's December and it's been 2 months since it burned. It's been 6 months since you've had a mental breakdown, and it's been 9 months since you were touched by pleasant romances. It's December and all the romance is gone, but the love is still there and everybody knows that toys break after a certain amount of time. You're not supposed to be reckless with words and you've always been the girl who stayed hidden in her bedroom protected by a single, thin, sharp edged, razor.
Guess what, you don't have a bedroom so the razor rusted a long time ago and now all those feelings you were burying beneath the floor are just getting crushed with acid words that shouldn't mean a thing to you.
It's December, and you wish it was July because by that time you'll already be gone.