skin cut, brain fucked crazy

She didn’t like to talk to people, yet she didn’t like being alone. That’s what I learnt about her. When we spoke, I was the one who did the most, and she’d sit, listening and rolling her cigarettes, one after the other, smiling or peeping a single sound; moan, grunt, a little laugh. Her laugh was little, this funny noise, between a cough and a giggle, and yet it was obnoxious. The few people who heard it were lucky to have done.
She always said I thought she was crazy, and she was. She was a nut bag, completely and utterly, skin cut, brain fucked crazy.