There are two types of punches in this world and I'll take them both. Maybe one right in the face before I become the punch line to your insensitive little jokes (sorry I forgot to laugh this time.)
And even then I'll take them gladly as the blood makes its acquaintance with my tears and my fears become entangled with fury.
Tell me that no one will ever love me and that I'm just another ugly girl in a ****** up world that will do nothing but swallow me whole and purge me once it tastes my bitterness. I'm sorry I wasn't sweet enough for you.
You. Craver of life's toxic temptations. Infatuations with the nicotine filled paper you place between your lips and the horror stories you read at three in the morning as you wish to become another doomed character created by your favourite authors.
But you didn't even bother to realize that our lives are the horror stories and as much as I wanted to put the book down I kept screaming for more.
Always craving but never satisfied.
And all I can hear is daddy crying out "You could have died!" "You could have died!"
You could have died.
I don't care, god ******. I thought the tears in his eyes would have stopped me but the spilled blood on the floor was so taunting and I knew right then that I'd always want more.
I guess I really am a *******, because you know for a fact that I would kiss the hands that punched me in the face