Red nails and listening to tales of horror at the early hours of the morning could never be boring to me. Blasting blasphemous music and mourning over fictional deaths in the early hours of the sun rise is not a surprising thing for me to do. And contrary to the fact that I'm too introverted for my own sake doesn't mean I won't streak out my friends when my mind bends to unhealthy places, and just because my soul can't be held simply by skin and bones doesn't mean the tone of your touch is clean to me. It clings to me, sticking to my presence like the childhood memories I can't shake off because they've grafted to me like flesh over a burn. I've tried to turn my life around but you lurk around every corner reminding me of my disorder and this love/hate roller coaster I've been strapped to. You seep into me like blood on a gauze and a heartbreak set on pause but I'm the cause of it all.
YOU ARE READING
It's Probably Better This Way
Poetry"I have put my heart and my soul into my work, and I have lost my mind in the process" -Vincent Van Gogh
