I guess I just felt like destroying myself. She asked why I would want to destroy something beautiful. I said "Isn't that the point of destruction?" And it's such a waste, really. I'm so capable of destruction. What better a thing to destroy than my own existence? Isn't that better than destroying everything else? I think there's a really dark part of me that could destroy this world. That might even want to.
Maybe that's what it means to be alive, to be flawed in such a grotesque way. But I feel the deterioration of my character so profoundly that I don't even feel human. It isn't a kind of painful deficiency. No, it's rather empty, actually. As though there's no heart to it. No heart to me.
But you wanna know what's really sick? I can't imagine being any other way. I think there's something about darkness that makes me happy. Some kind of obscure beauty, that I don't know if I can live without.
Let's be honest, it is a vice of mine: destruction. Even the word is beautiful. It paints my mouth and slides off my tongue. And God, does it taste good.
So what does that make me?
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Restless Things
Poesía"I didn't realize what damage heat can do To flesh so bare So I poured you out all over me Until I was undone And shaking But after the fire has gone All that's left is ash and wilted skin So now I know Better" -The Things You Left Behind (Poetry, P...
