It's not what I expected it to be.
Instead of feeling that calm and isolation I desired, I feel lost. No, it's not what I expected at all. I thought I could find myself by spending alone time with her but instead, I lost everything I knew about her. Have you ever died? Only then would you understand the extent of this loneliness. Like an abandoned building, I am graffitied with their words and left alone to crumble apart. I, the building, watch them leave to their own lives. Watch them live while I die. No, this is not at all what I expected. Perhaps it's the devil himself who is allowing these thoughts to cloud my brain. Even if it was, how could I tell the difference? This shame, which was never expected, is the reason I seem to be chained to my bed. Imagine that, however comical it may prove to be, feeling imprisoned in the place that once felt like home. Watching the menacing shadows dance across your walls. Even they don't know how you feel. I know what it's like to disappear, and all I'm left with is the sense that it should be for real.
With a story like mine,
you could write a book. The lines would be red, filled with hatred and pain. Nobody would see the plot twist from a million miles away. The once trusted figure, so pure and good. Now the criminal villan, smiling with her knife. But it wasnt a knife that I saw that night. It was something worse, to scar my eyes. But I'll never know how the story ends. The cliffhanger of the century, headlines would read. But it's all because of the lack of leads. And at the end of the day, it would be marked fiction. With a story like mine, you could write a book. But nobody would believe it, so why bother?
There comes a time in everyone's life where they must make a decision
Life, or death. Many pick the latter, most don't. How I envy the people who have such strength. To continue on without question. Let me ask, if I may. If everything seemed to go wrong, and the pressure to be okay continued to push further and harder, would you eventually break? Your legs aren't strong enough to carry the weight. And yet you do it anyway. But for what? Excuse my ignorance, if you could. I'm just dying to know what keeps you living.
The ink drips off my pen
so much to say, too much to say Will I ever get my words out? She's watching me Watching my pen dance across the page if only she knew these hatred filled lines, they're all about you.
— The End —