What the fuck is wrong with me by ivy

One looks like a don’t fuck with me edge. One looks like a goodbye.  Confidence covered in hair. My eyes catch fire and melt down my t shirt dripping rainbows onto the sand. Always a t shirt. The English Beat. John Lennon. The Ramones. I melt into music sharks chewing up the hurt. Like what the fuck is wrong with me. Nobody answer that. We all know what’s wrong with me. I’m searching. Searching for approval. For one true thing. For love. I’ve always been searching. Looking for some fun. A joy ride. A release. A place where I don’t have to think. Where I can become something other. The other is eyeless but super intuitive. Frankenstein arms reach into the air in front of me hunting for the wrath. Tears form from my empty sockets escaping into the clouds that drip dew. Forever riding trains. Never holding onto the poles or straps but leaning up against the doors. Needing to stand up straight at every stop never to be bent over again. My pen masquerades as a city. Perhaps that's not much of a stretch. It holds tiny people pinning them on gridded streets. Her fingers wiggle in mine. Crashing, searching, stretching earth worms in my potted plant. Chaperoning us to the place of metal goo. We dip fresh and raw colors onto hot and sticky canvases. I’m sorry. Trying to fit into shoes using my elbows and tongue. Fucking, never making love. Choking their betrayals. The snake went from around my neck to around my finger. There are songs I’ll never sing. The story goes like this. I’m the only one in here. Like flowers I droop. I need emotion. I want to be left alone. I found a place. There could of been a daughter in me. There could have been a foreign language. There could have been shades. Wraparound. Ray bans. Cat frames. Mirrored. Always been tired. Looking at clouds. At traffic. People walking. Squirts running. Seagulls flying. Until the party starts. Throwing back shots. Sipping on champagne. Putting an umbrella in it. Can’t change the world. Or find love. Or love of another. Or really love of myself. Looking over my shoulder of what’s creeping up on me. Three little words that kept me going. Stay. With. Me. Haunting really. Seeking independence. Found it. Nailing a love that tortures. Found it. Cramming tomorrow into now. Found it. Wanting adventure. Wanting to stay home. Wanting to be a good mom. Wanting to be a good wife. Wanting to play. Party. Escape. Play. Party. Escape. Play. Thoughts ranging from a cracked pumpkin to crooked pictures. Kneeling in a bathroom. Carving faces in voodoo dolls. Hanging my skin out to dry. Always been serious. Even here. Even in Ashland. Even now. Left alone in my thoughts I wait to adjust into the future of humankind. I see moss green houses. And cockroaches on cars. And bears in the fountain. Shaking my head. Wiping my tears. I realize how the wind blows out.