If I'm going to hell at least I'll meet the devil with a smiling face.
I'm not ashamed, disgraced nor will I try to plead my case.
I'll embrace my throne of fire and brimstone with the grace.
The cyclone of living mistakes I'll be shown will encase my soul.

Truth be told, I look forward to the torture.
My hands being torn asunder for the hearts I've plundered.
My tongue should get cut out because it's really a butcher.
My mind will lose its complexity because, really, that's the best of me
And I'll be babbling like the people on reality T.v.

A piece of me will be taken violently
and slowly I'll lose my serenity
Until I'm helplessly watching my insanity
destroy the lives of those I hold dearly
But don't pity me, I walked down this path willingly.

I find solace in accepting the malice.
It's sort of like walking through a dark forest;
at least I know there's darkness.
At least I know I'm hopeless
At least I know I'm honest
The silence of my screaming soul will leave Satan astonished.

I want to show you the corners of the world.

Yes, you're beautiful. No, I don't want a ****** relationship.

I don't want you to be perfect, just be passionate.

I hope you've forgotten me
So I, alone, can carry
the burden that's our memories.

They were the knotted extensions of her soul.
They showed how she twisted the truth
right out the lies she had been told.
Since birth people tried to typecast her role.

Marry a man
Have some babies
Grow old

Her family would say someone mucked up the recipe;
sugar, spice and everything nice. She was
dissimilar to the 3. Her sugar was solitude.
Her spice? Tattoos. Everything nice in her
had been stripped and *******. So the only
thing left of that were the bits of metal in her lips,
nose and ears. "Brush your hair 100 times a day, dear",
Her mother had said for years. And she did
until the day she told her parents she was
a different kind of queer. Then,the tears.

Somewhere between her mother's damnations,
her father's belligerence and her usual
rebuttal of indifference, she began to take interest
in her hair. Those long, straight strands were
nothing like her. The red reflected
her parents rejection. In that moment.
There was clarity in the contorted
version of love she had to incur.
She decided the only expectations
to accept were hers. And just like that
the barrier between her and the world cracked.
She decided to dread her hair and dye it black.

As the years went by,  her parents learned
to accept their daughter. And in return
each year  she would send them a photo
showing how her hair had gotten longer.
She also added trinkets to the locks and let
the strawberry color grow back.
Yet she kept the tips black to remind herself
no matter what the world wants her to be
the most important thing in life was her self-esteem.