THOSE WHO SUFFER LOVE
My Name is Elizabeth and I've been here a long time. I live in Los Angeles and I like the smog. I am art, but never by choice. I am the painted lines down the middle of the road and the paper flags of skeletons they fly in the only place I'll ever call home. Saddled between the dust in the hardwood floors is everything I never knew. I use words like drugs, and replaced substace with neurosis for an average teenage lifestyle. I am free willed in a controlled environment; I know only fifty percent of the population because they thought I would act out. Contrary to the contrary, the depression was never faked and the psychosis was only midly influenced. My father takes his angst from the British school boys and my mother never got away from home. I have friends who carve the names of strangers into limbs and I have friends who believe in God. My whole life is up in my head, and, to date, only about three people on this planet know and have taken any interest. I am everything I find distasteful.
My name is Elizabeth. And I won't be here for very long.