I'm either floating between feeling nothing and everything,
Or get smacked around between the two by something.
When I feel nothing, it's indescribable, words can never satisfy or explain what that feels like.
It's like having a hollow head, an endless sinking abyss for a torso, and the arms and legs seem to be nonexistent.
Cigarettes, *****, and anything to lift my feet off of the ground,
make me feel normal when I get like that.
However, there's no quick fix,
for when everything decides to come crashing down.
I can't do a **** thing, except grit my teeth, and wait for it to end.
I can hear my blood rushing in my ears, my eyes twitch, every ***** in my body seems to convulse, my mind races a million miles an hour, replaying memories over and over like a broken record, and I seem to loose control of myself.
I cannot walk, stand, sit up, or move anything.
I can only give in, wait for it to end, and welcome nothingness with warm arms.

Three.
Three times.
Three times, I've fallen for it.
Shame on me, for I am but an aimless fool.
Bumbling around, no sense of purpose, so sense of ground.
I should probably cut the **** huh?
Oh but you see, I'm so lost these days, I don't know where to begin.

I know **** well that I **** at poetry,
but you see,
it's hard to type or even understand what I'm writing,
when the words are always so ******* blurry.
Or when they float off the paper as if the wind were carrying them off.
And sometimes the words turn something else all together.
A paragraph can turn into a monster.
Some give me a sort of paralysis, and I'll sit for hours, just reading it,
over, and over again.
Other's stare me in the face, causing my stomach to drop,
every single time.
I'm never satisfied with what I write.
Everything is usually right,
but there's a part of me that believes,
that words will never express what's going on inside my head.
Yet it's the only thing that even comes close to helping.

It seems I spend most of my time with my head in the clouds,
Oh how I wish to be like them.
I wish to be careless, free, not a bound to anything, or anyone,
but no matter how high I get, my feet never leave the ground.
I am forever stuck, rising higher, but never actually leaving.
Like the roots on the ground have woven around my feet,
there's no actual way out, there never was, was there?

I'm sick of empty promises,
You've never come through, even when I need you most.
Yet you boast,
about what a great mom you are, when in reality you're not even close.
I'm sick of lies, because really, that's all empty promises are.
******* like "I'll try harder" or "I promise, I won't do that to you again."
"I'm sorry," is probably the one you've used to the highest degree.
You once told me as a small child,
that "I'm sorry," means you'll try not to do that again.
I remember because you lost all of you're knives, after you went on a rampage and started throwing them, ****, those meds sure did make you crazy.
I remember because you beat those words into my skull,
screaming "YOU'RE NOT SORRY YOU NEVER ARE",
as punishment for "losing" your ******* knives.
I've learned to keep my expectations as low as possible for you.
So that I'm never disappointed.

It's been awhile since I was this sober.
I believe I was about nine the last time.
You never realize you're completely fried, when you're always high.

Six straight years of ***, cigarettes, happy pills, and the occasional fun powder. Making **** sure it never ends, because if it ever did, I would know what it is I'm running from.

Running around ****** felt like a safety cushion.
Constantly stopping me from collapsing on the floor.
Stopping my bones from shattering, my blood and bile from gushing out, and my insides from exploding.

I think the fall would've killed me had I experienced the last six years sober.
I guess in the long run the highs are going to **** me the same way being sober would.
My insides are rotting, and my brain is fried.

I'm going to crumble.

Learn to not give a ****.
It'll get you a whole lot farther than actually caring about things.
When you care about someone, or something,
they're going to drag you down,
and you won't even realize you're drowning until it's too late.
It's because you won't be able to tell where the air is anymore,
up and down, side to side, are just random areas of blue.
Learn to say:
"**** it, I'll swim on"
because if you don't, those people, and those situations,
weave around your feet, and slowly work their way up,
until you're nothing but one of them.
A worthless, dragged down, corpse.

Sometimes, I lose myself.
I lose myself to all the voices,
they just make so many noises.
They all seem to be screaming,
some tell me I'm dreaming.
Whispers come from every corner,
Screams from every mourner.
Always talking all at one time,
Maybe that's why I can barely rhyme.
You have to scream to get me to notice you,
For I can barely hear myself break through
They pound around inside my skull,
it seems to make me rather dull.
A thousand miles away,
empty,
just
gone.

As I looked upon my grandfather's dying body, it hit me.
I realized just how alike he and I really are.
I was in his position a year ago.

I wasn't in a hospital.
I wasn't dying from **** and cancer.

I was in a rehabilitation facility.
I was dying from the lack of ****** in my system.

I spent all my time either lying in my own blood and bile in the bathroom
or screaming the names of people who would never see me because they were ashamed of how I turned out.

Just like he was.

Only grandpa had someone there with him as he was passing.
He had me and his friend.

I'm glad I'm not a ******* like the rest of his family.
I'm glad I was there. I hope he didn't feel alone.

Because no one deserves that.

There's holes in my brain,
and there's more than likely a few moles,
digging around, and eating the worms.

I wonder how much they enjoy eating cancerous tissue.
Or if it's more of an issue.
At this rate who knows how much longer I'll be around.

The noise is dying down,
I don't know if that's swell or ******,
but hearing news from the doctor,

has a tendency to make me pretty unhappy.

You say you like the way my lips curl into a smile,
and the way my snake bites fit my lips,
and the way my mostly emerald eyes become chinked up.
You say you like my curly purple hair,
even with the streaks of  royal blue and dark grey.
You say you barely notice the bags underneath my eyes,
or that weird little hip dip of mine.
Instead you notice the vibrancy and life you say my eyes contain,
and that weird little hip dip of mine, is nonexistent in your eyes.

It all simply baffles me.
I don't get it.
Even at my worst you can't say I don't look perfect.
What do you see that I don't?

Maybe you see in me what I see in you.

Everyone whom surrounds me,
seems to be a ******* simpleton.

I'm looked down on and people actually believe that I'M the stupid one,
Stupid because of my views on dogmatic religion like Christianity.
Stupid because I won't watch my mouth around those I don't respect.
Stupid because I've done a lot of drugs that have left holes in my brain.

The funny thing is, I may have holes in my brain, I may be completely ******* fried, I may have different views, and a ***** mouth.
Yet I'm still a lot smarter than the dumb ***** around me who are still living underneath their blankets, hiding from all the monsters roam and disguise themselves as everything they love.

Where do I begin?
Liar?
Controlling?
Unrealistic expectations I can never hope to reach?
The jealously written on your face?
I swear with you, I never know where to begin.
My blood boils at the thought of you,
calling yourself a mother,
when you don't even know the meaning of the word.
The ***** donor you refer to as my biological father,
may have been a ******* on ****,
but you know what?
He didn't threaten to **** me as an embryo whenever he didn't get his way.
As a matter of fact, he "saved" me from you,
upon multiple occasions.
All I am to you is a game piece,
and you play those little games with everyone around you.
I'm not human to you, I never was.
I tend to punch walls whenever I think about the fact that you actually lied to ME, for attention.
So that'd I'd feel bad for my poor, poor, mother
....and continue to care for the three younger unwanted kids.
God, that jealously is probably the thing I like about you best.
After all, it's the only "positive" thing I ever get from you.
You have no idea how good it feels to not only one up you,
but to get to watch and study how your face changes,
the way you glare at everything you want,
I know you want a 32DD bra size.
I know you want large green eyes.
I know you want wide hips, and young, firm, skin.
Thing is, I'm not even that attractive,
the thing you envy most,
is how happy you've seen me be around people I actually like.
Unlike you, I'll tell anyone to **** themselves, I'll surround myself by people I actually like, and I know how to play instruments, and they bring me more joy than you'll ever feel.
Unlike you, I don't lie and control everyone I meet, I stay honest, and don't **** around like that.
You may have drilled it into my head so deep that I need to be perfect.
And yeah, it destroys me every time I look in a mirror, or **** up, or remember things and obsess over them as they play over and over in my head like a broken ******* record.
I guess you win that round huh?
However, please realize, I see through your every facade, every mask, you're ******* transparent to me.
I know what you are.
You will always be vulnerable to me, you will always be naked, without a hard shell for protection.
I and believe me, I will NEVER stop reminding you.
I'll never stop picking you apart, like a crow on carrion.
I will be your own personal hell.
And I'll enjoy every moment of it.

So what if I'm a ****?
So what if I'm a *****?
At least I can stand up for myself.
I need don't anyone to tell me who I am.
I know, I've always known.
I'm okay with what I am.
As I look around it's like,
everyone around me is holding up a sign,
they all say ****,
and everyone is always giving them away.
I don't understand.
What's the point in being alive if you're always living for someone else?
Some say I'm the nicest person they've ever met.
This isn't true, I know what I am.
I know I can be nice, I can be caring, I can be selfless,
and for the most part, that's what I am.
However, for others, I'm their worst nightmare.
It's because I'm not afraid to tell them what I see.
I'm not afraid to tell them what they're thinking,
or how they perceive life.
I can always tell, I've always had a knack for figuring people out.
They hate me, because they know I'm right,
nobody wants believe, or even actually see,
what's going on around them, some fear themselves,
and hearing someone else say what's always at the back of their mind,
absolutely terrifies them.
I don't like those people, you have to accept what you are.
The people I like, are the people that are just like me.
The ones that are confused about the **** signs,
the fearless ones,
the smart ones,
the perceptive ones.

Your arms feel like home to me.
But I don't know where I'm going to be the next few weeks.
Certainly not where I want to be.
But where I need to be.
Leaving you feels like leaving home.
I know it's temporary, but it already feels like eternity
And I haven't even left yet.
I'd never seen you cry before last night.
It came as a shock.
"Happy 16th birthday, you're going to in patient."
I realize you don't know how to deal with things, because you're exactly like me.
I'm leaving for too long.
It scares me so much.
If you relapse, I don't know what I'm going to do.
Scream? Sob? Lose my mind?
I don't know.
The thought of another girl touching what's  mine makes me feel like I'm going to spontaneously combust
And I know I won't stop burning.
"Do what is going to make you better, what's going to make you happy. I'm going to hate every second of it, but don't think of me in this decision."
Do you even realize what you're asking me to do?
You're asking me to choose between leaving the one person I've felt like I've known forever, and facing my own personal hell.
I know I'm never going to stop carrying this heavy load on my back that is my trauma if I don't leave.
But it is so. *******. Hard.
You weren't my first with a lot of things,
But you were the first of the important things.
First person I've cared about more than myself.
First person to stay and not give me some ******* excuse of "you're to ****** up for me".
The very first person that didn't leave the very second he got what he wanted out of me.
The first to not be manipulative, or mean, or abusive.
The first to encourage me to do something with my life other than sit in my room all day or party.
The first that encouraged me to get an education.
The first to want a future with me.
" I refuse to think that this is over. I know you'll be gone a long time, but we are not ******* over. Not by a long shot. We're not done."
Those words are my only comfort. The problem is, they're just words. One can say whatever he wants. Whether or not his words become reality will always be questioned until the day that they're not.
I've been dying a long time.
I fear that the maggots and worms writhing around beneath my skin will begin to eat at a faster pace.

Silenced.
I watch.
I remember this.
It's me- but not me.
Please let this dream end. It is a dream right?
Someone else threw the lampshade, someone else had an expensive habbit, someone else had all those bruises.
That's not me. It can't be.
It's a trick, someones just trying to convince me that, that person is me.
That face.
Those bruises.
No.

Fear is eating away at my stomach,
And dissolving my brain.
So much so that the ability to think straight, eat, sleep, have all become a challenge.
A toxic mixture of fear and confusion are what's eating at my brain now.
Hey, at least for once it's not the drugs right?
There are two of me.
One says, the optimistic one, that it'll all be okay, and to just go with this.
The other, well, she doesn't like the look of this.
One is all lovey dovey, and the other is so scared of being stabbed in the back that she'd rather just sit in my room all day and ignore the fact that he exists.
She's always saying that this one is smart, he's not like the predictable idiots from the past. He's actually proven this time and time again, so its not just an assumption that he's a genius. This makes him so much more charming, and he has so much to offer, but it also makes him incredibly unpredictable.
Now that, that is some unknown territory for the both of us.
It bugs them both so much that they can't simply read his mind like the others. That they can't predict his every move days, or even weeks beforehand.
I've come to terms with the fact that the optimistic one is a *******. She always falls for stupid games. The other, she's not so dim, but even she is teetering on the edge for once. Teetering between trusting, and running the **** away.
That is a first for her, she never faulters, ever.
I haven't listened or taken heed of her words in the past. It's always left me unhappy, alone, and feeling stupid. She's the practical one, the one the never listens to her emotions.
The ******* on the other hand? Emotions rule her every decision, she's a fool. Listening to her has never gotten me anywhere good.
For once I'm listening to the practical one, and for the first time, even she's baffled by this oddity.
One cares to much, the other, usually doesn't even care as to whether she or anyone else dies.
Even she worries about him.
He may be smart, but he's just as ****** up. Just as likely to do the things I would. Just as likely to be utterly unpredictable. That, is terrifying.
I may love someone one day, but if they decide to stab me in the back, I'll still love them. However, I'll never speak to them again, and whenever they're around a fire will start inside of me. That continuously burns until they're so uncomfortable they feel the need to leave.
I may love him, but trusting is an altogether different thing for me. It only takes one mistake to destroy it and never gain it back. I'm always on high alert, and I refuse to take chances.
I believe this is the only thing that will keep me safe, but at what cost?

These ******* hickies,
are going to last longer than we did.
Almost a year,
spent on someone who got bored in a week.
I never really had a chance with you.
Did I?
Not a chance in hell.
I didn't think you'd turn into the empty headed zombies that walk around and infect people with the incurable sickness,
of stupidity.
I honestly thought you were immune like me, and for a fleeting moment I didn't feel so alone.
But I was wrong. Yet again. And now I have these ******* hickies reminding me of the time I faltered and went into a hallucinogenic state.
I can't even listen to my favorite music anymore without being reminded that you still exist.
You ruined it, and you ruined me too.

Last night was some crazy ****,
I got hit.
Over, and over, and over.

The day started out sunny,
but someone owed money,
and those ******* came to me.

Hoping I'd pay off his debt.

The biggest one was the most rank,
and the others stank, of sickly sweet ******.
When the biggest one grabbed me, that stench consumed me.

For a moment, just for a moment,
my opponents felt like home sweet home.
I tried to defend myself.

Huge mistake.

Tire irons hurt, but the stronger the person who wields it,
the more you tend to squeal.
Ex boyfriends really ****.

Especially when they leave you for Europe,
and stick you with their debt left in the states.

I hate that stupid ******* **** with a passion.
I honestly hope she gets exactly what she deserves.

I hope karma gets her back for all the times she abandoned me with random people who hurt me over and over again until she finally came back for me months later.

I hope something bites her in the *** for all the ******* boyfriends and husbands she had that did whatever they wanted to me whether she was there or not.

I hope she's killed in the worst possible way for every time she told me I was worthless, or a *****, or disgusting pig.

And I certainly hope she's tortured before she dies, for giving me a bottle of pills and a razor saying "Do whatever you see fit" and leaving me.

But I don't think she'll ever get what she deserves, because the world doesn't work like that.

I simply don't give a **** anymore.
Physical pain doesn't even phase me.
Mental abuse is nothing.
****** abuse has become predictable.
Verbal abuse is nothing but a faint buzzing sound.

At first I just thought I was numb.
But it turns out I've just lost the will to live.
I couldn't care less as to whether I live or die.
It simply does not matter.
There's no difference anyway I assume.

Christ, I haven't been on here since just before I went to rehab. It's already been a year.

As I sit in this class,
boredom begins to attack,
my mind wanders, aimlessly.

My mind drifts,
and then my stomach sinks,
as I met your gaze, I remember what you once meant.

You were my best friend, my brother, you were family.
I remember the days we laughed until our ribs hurt,
and the way we sang, oh so beautifully out of tune.

We're not like that anymore, we are nothing.
We don't talk, or laugh, or sing, like we used to.
Just fake smiles and hated politeness.

But I suppose it's good that you and I no longer care.

Because I have paper think skin you see,
and although I was mostly happy,
I received all my pain,

From you

You cut my skin into itty bitty pieces.
Leaving me exposed and naked.
And at my most vulnerable

**YOU DESTROYED ME

Please quit pretending to give ****.
We all know you just don't want your house ***** to overdose & die.
That's really all I am here, a house *****.

I have no other purpose other than to clean your house,
and taking care of the three kids you popped out,
and as someone for you to take all of your hate out on.

But you can't have your biological daughter running around,
and ruining your "great" reputation.
So private school it is.

So that your unruly, *******, house *****,
learns some manners.
You're 32 years old, and still don't have your **** together.

Yet you're 15 year old daughter is expected to deal with all your **** on top of the fact that everyone around her are dropping like flies, and she's expected to be perfectly happy and okay, with all of it.

I was in the forest the other day,
I found fun things,
albeit I had no idea what they'd do.

I didn't know if they'd **** me,
or give me a kick *** high,
I decided to find out.

The minutes are rolling by,
and so am I.
Did that cactus just open it's eyes?

I'm tripping *****,
and I'm loving every minute of it.
Things are finally coming to life.

I had a chat with that ****** rat.
She admitted all the **** she'd done behind my back.
I was surprised, I'd thought she was a close friend.

I had a conversation with a lippy lizard,
and he told me the absolute truth about what he thought.
It was good to hear, but nothing I'd never heard from him before.

I became best friends with a ******* cactus.
We mostly bonded over mutual hatred.
We're both ******, and neither of us give a ****.

I think that's why we're the best of friends.
He and I always have been.

Your smile seems to be the only thing that brings joy,
no matter how much you annoy.
Everything seems to drift in your arms,
I've so clearly fallen victim to those charms.
You seem to be the only thing that makes sense,
although I am rather dense.
You've been by my side since the beginning,
and you've always left me grinning.
The fact that you have stuck around,
despite the fact that I'm always down or a complete clown,
will never cease to astound.
I found my smile in yours.

Thank you for sticking around as long as you did,
you honestly surprised me,
most wouldn't have lasted this long.
Thank you for being real,
and not saying words you didn't mean.
I know it was hard for you.
Dealing with someone like me, is not an easy task,
but you told me that this is what you wanted.
I believed you, but I always knew what was coming.
I know that after awhile with me,
it becomes to hard to bare,
it becomes to much for anyone to stand.
I always knew you weren't strong enough,
but still,
thank you,
thank you for teaching me to smile,
thank you for teaching me how to actually deal with things,
instead of pushing them away and acting like they never existed.
I wish you'd done this a different way,
a face to face talk,
or even over text would've been nice.
I'm not okay with the fact that you just stopped talking to me,
but I get it.
I get it because every time you looked at me,
smiled at me,
hugged me,
kissed me,
there was this sense of sadness,
and a sense of things you needed to say,
but clearly couldn't.

The fact that I saw this coming doesn't make it hurt less.
So I will continue, making a fool of myself, and rambling on,
about senseless things, and of course, I WILL be drunk the whole ******* time.

I cannot run any longer.
The rate I've been going all these years,
everything just imploded.
I haven't much time,
to write these words on the pavement before lights out, for good this time.
Everything strewn everywhere.
My left eyeball is still rolling. The right is barely hanging on.
My blood rushes in all directions.
Some of it drips off into the dirt and soaks in.
But the rest seems to paint a picture.
An exploding city, the streets are flowing red, and the dust will never settle.
It's beautiful, and chaotic at the same time.
Seeing a tower right before it crashes down, and contributes to the destruction of it's own home.
I don't know how much longer I have to admire this,
and I don't know if anyone else will ever get to see something so-
So completely ******* insane.
The city no longer exists, neither do I.
The blood has covered everything.

Have you ever fallen, face first, drunk?
It feels like you're merging with the floor, sinking.
Every hard exterior you seem to sink into, like quick sand.
Have you ever had that continue to happen after sobering up?
It seems I'm falling through rock bottom.
At least rock bottom was solid.
I don't know where I am now.

I think I'm just lost now.

"Stop talking like that."
"You're too young to feel that sad."
"Where's your mother?"
"Oh shut up, you don't have anxiety, it's just part of being your age."

**** those people.
I haven't spent hours upon hours sitting with a therapist trying to get over the trauma of my childhood and the **** being flung around me, to listen to ******* like that.

I refuse to watch my mouth around people I do not respect.
I'm not to young to feel.
My mother is to busy with her newest husband and his spawn.
Most days I'm too fearful to get out of bed because I might see people and most of the time I have to hide in my therapists bathroom because I don't want the ******* secretary to look at me.

15 isn't that young, really it's not considering kids like me grow up a lot faster than those around us.  My mental illnesses are no less real than someone in their 30s. I'm human. Not a senseless animal.

Stop trying to determine whether or not a person is good or bad.
Just focus on determining their level of toxicity to you.

Some people will give to charity, but beat their wives.
Others will help the homeless, but smuggle drugs.

We cannot be bad people.
We cannot be good people.

The only thing we can be, is human.

There are tracks on my arms,
There are tracks between my toes,
and some may be seen between slender fingers.
You see those odd little tracks on the outside,
was only the first footstep.
The rest are beneath the skin,
and have worked their way throughout all of my veins.
The footsteps of an evil unseen to the naked eye has touched my blood.
I may not see all of the footsteps,
but I'll always see the first one,
and I'll never be able to forget.

The walls seem to speak in the dark,
maybe it's all the left over marks,
from all the nights I spent screaming and throwing ****.
Or maybe I need to take my pills.
These walls can tell so many tales,
but you have to read the braille.
During the day that is.
As night falls and illusions form,
the walls become somewhat out of the norm.
Eyes appear of the greenest of hues,
and the most jagged edges for mouths.
These walls, they never shut up once they get going.
Bestowing unwanted knowledge upon innocents.
However, as the morning sun rises,
They return to their nearly normal guises

Your arms feel like home to me.
But I don't know where I'm going to be the next few weeks.
Certainly not where I want to be.
But where I need to be.
Leaving you feels like leaving home.
I know it's temporary, but it already feels like eternity
And I haven't even left yet.
I'd never seen you cry before last night.
It came as a shock.
"Happy 16th birthday, you're going to in patient."
I realize you don't know how to deal with things, because you're exactly like me.
I'm leaving for too long.
It scares me so much.
If you relapse, I don't know what I'm going to do.
Scream? Sob? Lose my mind?
I don't know.
The thought of another girl touching what's  mine makes me feel like I'm going to spontaneously combust
And I know I won't stop burning.
"Do what is going to make you better, what's going to make you happy. I'm going to hate every second of it, but don't think of me in this decision."
Do you even realize what you're asking me to do?
You're asking me to choose between leaving the one person I've felt like I've known forever, and facing my own personal hell.
I know I'm never going to stop carrying this heavy load on my back that is my trauma if I don't leave.
But it is so. *******. Hard.
You weren't my first with a lot of things,
But you were the first of the important things.
First person I've cared about more than myself.
First person to stay and not give me some ******* excuse of "you're to ****** up for me".
The very first person that didn't leave the very second he got what he wanted out of me.
The first to not be manipulative, or mean, or abusive.
The first to encourage me to do something with my life other than sit in my room all day or party.
The first that encouraged me to get an education.
The first to want a future with me.
" I refuse to think that this is over. I know you'll be gone a long time, but we are not ******* over. Not by a long shot. We're not done."
Those words are my only comfort. The problem is, they're just words. One can say whatever he wants. Whether or not his words become reality will always be questioned until the day that they're not.
I've been dying a long time.
I fear that the maggots and worms writhing around beneath my skin will begin to eat at a faster pace.

There was a time when I craved knowledge.
I once thought it was a symbol of power.
I've come to learn, that it's all a lie.
Yeah, I could be doctor, yes I know I'm capable of it.
But I'd be in debt, and I wouldn't be happy.
So what would be the point?
In the end would you rather be intelligent and rich, or just happy but barely making do?
I think I chose the second.

I'm and indecisive human.
I often contradict myself.
This is because many humans are complex beings with different thoughts constantly running around inside of their skull.

I may say I hate everyone, but there are always one or two people that I hate less than everyone else.
I may want my mother to die in a pit of hellfire, but on some level I'm grateful that she didn't abort me like she planned, despite all the bad ****.

People have opinions on EVERYTHING and even if something is basically the same subject matter, they most likely have a million contradicting thoughts.

You know it's bad town,
When it's easier for a sixteen year old,
to get her hands on ****,
Rather than whiskey.

I swear you're nothing but a ***** stain on the face of the earth.
Always determining their worth,
by what other ***** stains think.
Some are always on the brink,
of figuring out what's really going on in the world around them.
But no, they all think their just a beautiful gem,
no flaws, no imperfections, everything they see is seen through rose tinted glasses.
Failing to see that the masses,
are falling at their own hands.
Never meeting their own demands,
always sinking lower and lower, for other ***** stains.
Where, oh where, are all of their brains?
There seems to be no rhyme or reason for the things they do.
And so I sit, sipping brew,
not knowing what the **** to do,
except wait, for the ***** stains to be cleansed.
Waiting for the day that will never come.

You can always run, but just know that you'll never, ever stop.
Once you begin to run, facing things become even more terrifying,
than if under normal circumstances.
You can never hide,
these things follow you around like small children in a grocery store.
No matter how well you hide,
whether it's under soil and dirt,
or under your bed,
or even in your own head.
They'll always find you.
Always.