I guess you could call it poetic how by the age of 12 I had no recollection of what happiness tasted like on my tongue. Some would say it was tragically beautiful.
But it was not poetic, nor was it beautiful, but it was tragic. It was so very, very sad, and that sadness is only doubled now that people see sorrow as glorious. It is not glorious. It is not strength. It is a lump of iron in your chest and stomach and it eats you from the inside, out and you have no right to think that blood stained wrists are anything other than tragic. So very, very tragic.
Aug 9, 2015
Aug 9, 2015 at 12:51 PM UTC
I guess you could call it poetic how by the age of 12 I had no recollection of what happiness tasted like on my tongue. Some would say it was tragically beautiful.
But it was not poetic, nor was it beautiful, but it was tragic. It was so very, very sad, and that sadness is only doubled now that people see sorrow as glorious. It is not glorious. It is not strength. It is a lump of iron in your chest and stomach and it eats you from the inside, out and you have no right to think that blood stained wrists are anything other than tragic. So very, very tragic.
