Fashion

Tumblr’s very own.

FYMW.

No hugs.

No kisses.

Private flights.

MacBook Airlines.

NYFW.

Shit’s lonely at 30,000 feet.

No team to put on.

No clique to rep.

No crew to call my own.

I fucks with me.

I’ve been on this dash too long.

And that starts to eat away at a blogger.

My main bitch turned her back on me.

I don’t have much to believe in.

So now I’m drowning in the purp.

Dove in head first.

Eggplant Cuci cashmere.

Violet suede Tods.

Orchid moleskin cargos.

Pansy patch pockets.

I’ve copped four grails this week.

I can explain.

Things are falling apart.

Crumbling.

Like Rogues.

When AC singed with The Signature.

Late night DM’s.

“You still working?”

Private messages.

“Are you blogging right now?”

One thing’s for certain.

My gift is my curse.

I left you unoriginal motherfuckers in my dust.

While you were blogging ‘bout Kirsten’s snaggle tooth.

And frontin’ with a full clip of gifs.

As if that was hard or some shit.

I was spitting that new new.

Snapping and blacking out.

Talking mad reckless.

Making these Internet gangsters my sons.

And now there’s nobody left to put some of this weight on.

The top of #menswear aint no place to raise a family.

Fuck that new Tumblr that you think you found.