It's starting again.
I can feel the emptiness nestling in my joints.
With each drop in temperature, the
evils begin spiraling inside
of my mind as I fall
to the hounds.
I don't care. I don't blink.
It has no effect on me
anymore.
In my mind, I am smoking away
the tears and choking fears. Wispy tendrils of
heather gray caress my thin, chapped
lips with love. I am wearing
leather and black and there are
silver knuckles
gracing my lily white skin, marred
only by my ****** bitten nails and
your ink. I am
embracing
the demons, letting them drive
me away on chrome plated chariots, just
to get away, to run faster than God
itself, to the end -
the finish line -
they can't catch me;
they won't catch me yet,
not today.
In reality, I am buried
by layers of fat and years of secrets. I am
nothing but easily forgotten, and I
breathe in the esse of other lives, as if
they can save me or take hold, can grab
me tight, can pull my head high above suffocating
midnight waves. I am an
actor only by the smiles that convince me of a performance
well done. I am a liar, a
**** good one.
I'm not even excited for Christmas.
The tree, the lights, the frosty
air does nothing to arouse a festive
spirit or a hopeful mood. This is my only tell.
I have never lost
this one hope, this sole
light. Never have I lost
all - just you, though that has
always felt like a loss
larger than life.
**** it all,"* I whisper.
Because no one cares, and we
are a selfish race. We are self-
absorbed, drowning in our own sorrows, and
clinging to desperate attempts of connecting.
It's starting again, and this time, I can
taste it on my tongue. Bitter, copper, heavy and
foul. Perhaps, if I believed in salvation, I
could afford
hope. For now, though, hope is an
empty bottle of water in the Sahara, and it is
foreign and massive and dark and looming.
Eating me alive.
Dec 1, 2013
Dec 1, 2013 at 5:24 PM UTC
It's starting again.
I can feel the emptiness nestling in my joints.
With each drop in temperature, the
evils begin spiraling inside
of my mind as I fall
to the hounds.
I don't care. I don't blink.
It has no effect on me
anymore.
In my mind, I am smoking away
the tears and choking fears. Wispy tendrils of
heather gray caress my thin, chapped
lips with love. I am wearing
leather and black and there are
silver knuckles
gracing my lily white skin, marred
only by my ****** bitten nails and
your ink. I am
embracing
the demons, letting them drive
me away on chrome plated chariots, just
to get away, to run faster than God
itself, to the end -
the finish line -
they can't catch me;
they won't catch me yet,
not today.
In reality, I am buried
by layers of fat and years of secrets. I am
nothing but easily forgotten, and I
breathe in the esse of other lives, as if
they can save me or take hold, can grab
me tight, can pull my head high above suffocating
midnight waves. I am an
actor only by the smiles that convince me of a performance
well done. I am a liar, a
**** good one.
I'm not even excited for Christmas.
The tree, the lights, the frosty
air does nothing to arouse a festive
spirit or a hopeful mood. This is my only tell.
I have never lost
this one hope, this sole
light. Never have I lost
all - just you, though that has
always felt like a loss
larger than life.
**** it all,"* I whisper.
Because no one cares, and we
are a selfish race. We are self-
absorbed, drowning in our own sorrows, and
clinging to desperate attempts of connecting.
It's starting again, and this time, I can
taste it on my tongue. Bitter, copper, heavy and
foul. Perhaps, if I believed in salvation, I
could afford
hope. For now, though, hope is an
empty bottle of water in the Sahara, and it is
foreign and massive and dark and looming.
Eating me alive.
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