Mourning Monsters

And I might be beautiful if it weren’t for all these scars. This rot ridden soul. Putrid and hateful.
No matter how deep the razor goes it just can’t reach what’s wrong. Because it’s everything. Every breath, beat, lash, cell. Every day, hour, moment. Curling out, up, in.

The only way to get out is to break out for good. Break down. Decay. Big bright red Cheshire grin. Sloppy jagged hunks of flesh sickeningly remindful of teeth gushing crimson vomit. And it’s all tumbling out now.
Worthless
Wasteful
Wicked
Wrong
Wrong
Wrong
And if you ever did anything right they might love you.
If you cease. Cease to be. Think.

And if you could, please, just be a little less you. However, it really doesn’t seem to be worth my time, so why don’t you just continue on.

While you’re busy championing Jonathan Harker, I’m mourning Dracula.
And who is there to hold me while I lose control?
Who is there to ease the pain of loss?
Who is there to ease the heartache?
Who is there to tell me the sun will set and night will return once more?


Maybe they would be,
If you weren’t a Monster.

But then who would you be?

Aciculate

What do I think of her? I don't care. I hate her. I hate you. I want her to DIE. Quit bleeding me out with your rancid bullshit. WHY DO YOU WANT MY FUCKING APPROVAL? Piss off. Stand on your own two feet for FIVE god Damned seconds.

Sometimes I want to string you upon my wall. See Blood Eagle, Norse. I want to skin your face while you sleep. And keep you alive so I can wake you while wearing it. So you'll cry and I can chirrup in the sweet glee as the salt from your tears bores acid trails down your fucking face.

I AM TIRED OF YOUR FUCKING GAMES.

I'm sick of the way you lie. The way you showboat and endeavor to endear yourself to others. Seeking something you don't deserve. When I want fiction I'll read a book.

The thought of you makes me itch. I feel as though all the flesh I have is constricting me, and I know it's not my flesh but thoughts of you. Thick and sticky - like florida air. Some sick sadistic sauna that never shuts off. Burying you, crushing in upon you like some ghoulish additional layer of gravity that shouldn't exist. And the razor I've entombed in my cutis drags so easily along that line displayed in taxidermy guides.

And I'm not sure what's sicker. The fact that the thought of you makes me want to skin myself for fear of suffocation. Or that the blade slicing through to the dermis is the only happiness I know anymore.

And to your shock and horror I am hysterically happy, cackling with glee insurmountable. [Insurmountable - incapable of being overcome]

I'm suckling the blood from my fingers. Tonguing it from my arm. And if I gnaw just a bit harder I'll reach that pulsing beat within these soft tips.

What wounds me is the fact that you will assume this is about you. Because you just cannot help your arrogance. Everything I used to love about you is wearing me down. Before it crumbles to dust I'll make sure to carve out a piece for you to keep. You always had to prove you owned me in the end anyway.

And this life I'm living is a lie. So all I've left to do is throw it all away. What makes me sadder still is the knowledge that in the end it wouldn't make an impact in your life

Cessation depends on inconspicuous intercourse betwixt carotid and steel...