If, in parallel universes, there are other living versions of myself, I wonder what hell is being raised for me to get so incredibly dragged down. Like a long spiraling descent, similar to the blackness that blankets you when you're about pass out from asphyxiation.
I feel ridiculous, and I want a fucking cigarette.
Boy was I stupid. Putting my heart right out there as a carrot for the wicked, unable in my own mind to believe that somewhere lurking in love was utter looming disaster; the ticking time bomb like a blood clot on a kamikazi mission for my heart. The road to hell is paved with good intentions. Now I'm wading thick in it, enemy mission accomplished, the porcupine spine that digs in deeper, poisoning my soul.
It steams when I exhale.
And suddenly I am angry like wild fire, violent when my eyes are closed. Keep quite so nobody knows.
July was supposed to be a blessed release from the destruction of June, but all I've found are these hateful weeds sprouting, the aftermath of severance. Sewing the wound closed, the stitches burn. Grit my teeth against gaping gums, adding a physical dynamic of pain, pulling teeth, and the constant taste of blood in my mouth.
Dark and disturbed indeed. If this is going to be the place I live in, I'm going to ride the fucking monster till it's bones break, skin grinding against cement like a cheese grater. Fuck you.
I'm going to crawl out of this garbage dump of souls, even if it means leaving you behind. You don't get to tear me down like this again. FUCK YOU.
FUCK YOU and your FUCKING ILLNESS. This is the last time you infect me with this sickness.
I'll kill you before I let you kill me.
Fuck you.
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