I'm bipolar, but I'm not crazy, and I never was. I'm stark raving sane.
Then I break a glass and I slit my very innermost thigh so that I can pretend that I'm menstru--- well, unavailable.
What if I'm an angel without wings to take me home?
History written in pencil is easily erased, but crayon is forever.
Life is not like Gloomy Sunday, with a second ending when the people are disturbed.
Simply put, if you are a Wayward Victorian Girl, I'll find you.