I groan and close my eyes, reaching blindly backwards for Indigo. I grab the collar of his shirt and throw him forward, receiving a kick to the face in the process.
I'm never what I like I'm double sided And I just can't hide I kind of like it When I make you cry 'Cause I'm twisted up, twisted up Inside
I hold my face, tasting blood, and realize I bit down too hard on the inside of my mouth when he kicked me. He groans and rolls me away from him, sitting up.
"Gods, I think you broke my face," I mutter, chuckling afterwards.
I feel hands on either side of my face but don't open my eyes.
"Yeah, sorry about that," I hear him chuckle.
I groan again and he heaves me over his shoulder, taking me somewhere.
I'm never what I like I'm double sided And I just can't hide I kind of like it When I make you cry 'Cause I'm twisted up, twisted up Inside
What is a poet? An unhappy person who hides deep anguish in his heart, but whose lips are so formed that when the sigh and cry pass through them, it sounds like lovely music. — Søren Kierkegaard, Philosopher & Theologian