denise-annWhisper

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A Love Letter From A DrunkDear Jay. / I know your name is not really Jay, but at the moment I can't remember what it is. Somewhere between the fire in my throat, the spinning top in my skull, the sixth bottle of beer, I've forgotten. / I'm sorry.

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HellHell is not made of fire. / A lot of people believe that hell is a world covered in flames, with heat that sears through your very being, scorches your soul, and inflicts terrible agony. They say Hell is a place for fiery torment, where fire is a vicious serpent that winds through your existence and seeks to quench every feeling except anguish, but at the same time refusing to let you be conquered by nothingness, keeping you wide-awake so you can feel every blistering sensation. / They're wrong.

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Dear CupidJune 28, 2013. / Dear--no, this is not a diary entry, this is not a summary of the things I experienced today, this is not about how I felt when my crush said 'Hey', this is not about him or her, this is not about me. / Dear Cupid.

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NyctophiliaLet us / teach the stars how to dance / guide the constellations into a lemniscate

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A Love Letter From The Mind To The HeartDear heart. I am the one in charge here. Neuroscience has long taken the responsibility of handling emotions from you. I am in charge of everything in this body, dear heart, I tell you what to do, and you do it. I think we both know I'm the better thinker here. / So why must you ache, why must you suffer for what I do? For every scalding thought you recoil in your cage and pound on the bars of your prison, wishing to be worn on someone's sleeve, dear heart, you've been hidden for too long. You don't know how this world works, and I do, so you must obey me when I tell you what to do. I know it hurts to keep beating despite of how the chemical reactions in my mind may affect you. For every feeling I take as a thought, every thought you mistake as a feeling, we both protest. For a long, long time we refuse to communicate with each other and I know you are tempted to rest, to stop beating because you're the one aching. It's not me, dear heart, that clenches like a fist, crumples inward like a useless scrap of paper, collapses on itself like a star on the brink of a supernova, it is not me, dear heart, that gets hurt. / Why do I only ache when I'm facing a mathematical problem, a complex theory, a questionable logic, a memory-loss crisis, why do I only suffer when I think really hard, even though I am the one in charge of emotions and feelings? Why is it you, not me, that a knife buries itself in when there is emotional pain? Why is it you that has be shredded into blood strings and crimson feathers of sinew, as if you were plucked from an angel's bleeding wings while heaven screeched its protest? Why are you the only one that is punished?

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Written In An Unused NotebookDisfigured / Trapped in her mind / Prisoner of shackles twice as big as her wrists

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Boy, Please Do(n't)Boy, don't you dare look at me like that. / Like I'm a question, a riddle, a puzzle, jigsaw pieces that don't quite fit with each other. Like I'm an unsatisfactory answer, a justification riddled with holes, a problematic solution to a solvable problem. Don't look at me as if I'm a blank sheet of paper, as if you can see what isn't there, as if you see beyond this cage while even I can't see through it. Just...don't look at me. / Boy, don't you dare talk to me like that.

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How To Hurt YourselfSo. You've decided to go on a journey to hurt yourself. The road will be ****** and gory, brambles of thorny vines will grab you and strangle you like a vise. But I will be here to guide you on how to make yourself bleed, either literally or metaphorically. Trust me—I have a doctorate in masochism, and I have formulated 9 simple steps to assist you in your personal quest to become unhappy. / Step one. Do something bad. Do something people would never expect you to do. Do something shockingly horrible. The worse, the better. Talk about your loyal friends behind their backs and make sure they're eavesdropping. Punch the nicest person you know in the face. While an old woman is crossing the street unassisted except for her fragile walking stick, kick it from beneath her trembling grip and walk away without looking back. Tell your mother you're a son of a ***** Slit your wrists in front of your parents. / Step two. Hate yourself. If you have done step one splendidly, I'm sure you'll do fine with this one. Convince yourself you're a despicable creature, not worth calling a human being, and wallow in self-pity. Sit on a throne of shattered beer bottles and drown in liquor, screaming odes to your repulsive self. Behold the snide looks directed your way and revel in them. Know that you don't deserve to live. You will fear death, though. Fret not, this is perfectly normal at the early stages of your journey to hurting yourself.

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FinaleThe traditional story has a beginning and an ending. Between these two are strife and conflict and dragons and witches and handsome knights and beautiful princesses. The middle, they say, is the heart of the story, the journey which rises or declines to the ending. This is where the carefully crafted beginning is torn asunder, where valiant heroes attempt to stitch it back together, where most of the time it only ends up flayed further open like a wound. / Or an unread letter. Or a broken fist. Or shattered chains. Or dying stars. / And.

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Glove & ScalpelI am crippled / and cursed / with the inability

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