I do not know how it seemed to grow from me, but I’ve become so enamored with this pretense of a struggling broken heroine—someone who suffers under a heavy smile and finds the time to carefully whisper words of love over her raised, old scars, blending into her the trust she could never find in this distorted world.
And I find that it has become an obsession of mine—to lock myself into the delusions of a worthy farce, something I divulged my entire being into in order to savor the scraps of blood that slip out from underneath the rosters, little puddles of my tribute to the thrashing, the mangled survivors of this terrible outcast.
But it’s too much—because it has grown into me, wrapped its roots around the base of my heart and lunged its spidery limbs all over my skin, taken over my body, singed into my shattering mind that we are the same now, that if you are gone, there will be this raw emptiness inside of me, the bleeding hole where you should be, where you were draining me of all I once was in this wrecked world…
And I raise my hand to my face and rip at the skin until I am soaked in my blood and there is only the white skull left, and I realize, that I sold my soul to the demons, that I am forever doomed to live this way.
And there is no escape, none at all.