There's young Mary,who doesn't know what she wants,who laments about nothingness,who cares too much about dust.She'll blend in a crowd and wish that she didn't just for the right one.Her brain is made out of dried flowers,oozy nightmares and organic revelations.She can write about you.Mary loves cats.She's a martyr.
There's middle Mary,who knows what she once wanted,who seldom breaks her facade,who'll throw a coin in the air to pick her mood.She'll take your pain away with one warm hand and wish she could do that for herself too.Her brain consists of bills,alarm clocks and that one trip to the beach.She can draw you.Mary loves her family.She's a martyr.
There's old Mary,who's always known what she wanted,who'll curse you without flinching,who cares about caring.She'll be as moody as a hurricane and not give a damn about it.Her brain is a collection of memories,recipes and moral values.She can tell stories about you.Mary loves dwelling in the past.She's a martyr.
P.S.I'm probably drunk and verging on a diabetic coma.My brother is just fine.I don't think I deserve this name.
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