mikachan
Shards of glass cut into my feet, but I feel nothing. Knife wounds slice against my arms, but I feel nothing. Hot steaming water pours down over me, but I feel still nothing. You thrust your hand into my chest, wrap your clawed fingers around my lungs, and laugh. You squeeze and I choke out whispers. You speak words, taboos, and poison that drips from the sides of your mouth.
You've never reached out your hand to me, I've always been the one to grab it as it swings lifelessly by your side. While you breathe in air, I'd breathe out disappointment. It doesn't take much for thin hair to snap, for bridges to break, and for whispers to turn into echoes. It doesn't take much at all.
I like to sit in the quiet, where nothing moves and my breath is but a touch upon my own skin, damp and cold. I can pretend that my voice echoes off of newly white painted walls, wrapping me up in my own words that I wish that I wouldn't have to say. I can't make you do anything, can't make you live, can't make you die, can't make you believe, can't make you love, and can't make you see anything but what you already see. I like to sit in the quiet because I can pretend nothing ever happened, because nothing ever did happen in the end and won't ever happen.
Sometimes I like to pretend that I don't remember how your voice sounds, or how many seconds it takes for you to inhale my love and exhale it like poison dripping out of your mouth. I like to pretend that I don't remember anything, nothing at all. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn't. It only takes one sound to remind me, a constant nightmare as I blink, with you looking into my eyes and asking, "do you miss me?"
I crawled into the depths of your heart, and hoped to God that you wouldn't find me. I hid in the shadows, fed on your love, and swam through the thorns to find your soul. All I found was pitch darkness, and the nothingness beneath my feet. You fooled me, carved your name on my chest, clawed your fingers down my thighs, claimed what was offered and walked away from it. What use was there to try and find something that was never there to begin with.
The dirt under his finger nails were beautiful. I wanted to taste the filth, imperfection, the ugly, and in between. I wanted to be the gum under his shoes. I wanted to be wanted.
He hates being strong. Strong meant sacrificing what you love most for what you're supposed to love, and that wasn't him at all.
Sometimes he thinks about why his fingers are so long, why his cigarette's smoke curls around his body as it travels towards the sky, why he can't stop breathing when he feels like it, why he can't stop feeling when he wants to.
I don't know whether to lean to the left or right, I'm afraid of losing my footing and tumbling down and down and down, unable to find myself in the dark. I don't wish to move from my place.
Hide yourself from the light, from reality, from everything, and look through darkened eyes at the world. I don't care, but I really do, but I still don't care, it rings in your head.
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