Laminated Emotions

Lines.

The Metamorphosis.

I wound the wire around my finger, strangled it until it was blue and the pain didn't feel like pain. It felt like pleasure. 

There's a fine line between the two. And sometimes, on dark, blurry nights, illuminated by my guilty conscience; the line disappears. Maybe it was never there. That's what you say every time you find me at your door with a bruised heart that I wore on my sleeve for too long. You smile that same sad smile, the one that says, 'I sympathise with your body for putting up with your fucking mind.' and I loved that. I love feeling the disgust and malice I had for my brain. It was always entertaining to see who would reign that day- my head or my body. 

Malice over pleasure.

Pleasure over pain.

Pain over pleasure. 

(whats the difference?)

The switches are always the worst. They take a piece of me every time. Pieces of me I know I won't get back no matter how much I cry and scream. "Fucking try," you said. 'Fucking try fucking try fucking try.' Your voice is like rock against rock. It drives me off the edge. 

'I hate you.'                        

'I hate you.'

'I  hate you.'

On rewind. Again and again and again...

See the pattern there? 

I'm  breaking bone to feel alive and you're constantly puffing. The blood makes for a compelling storyline, and maybe one day they'll talk of us as legends. Legends who broke the barriers of insanity they didn't know they were capable of. 

I was laying down on your bed, and your arm was cold under me just like your hugs were and just like your kisses will always be. I still remember walking to the bar, cracking open a bottle of scotch and downing it, all while staring at your face. It was so pretty. I once found it pretty in the sunlight, your eyes would sparkle and crinkle with all the laughs we shared. But somewhere along the line, something changed. Something changed for the worst. I can't exactly pinpoint it, and for that, I'm glad. 

'There's no fun in being good.'

Thats what she said before we took the first hit (what would be the first of many more). The nicotine gave my body a buzz I was craving, lit up the nerve endings I thought were long lost to the numbness. 

Insanity was feeling alive. 

You didn't fear anyone, anything. Thats what sold me on the concept initially, The freedom of doing whatever the fuck I wanted without those voices in my head. The fucking voices that my head turned up every night (there was no white noise to drown them out at midnight) and my head knew that. 

.

.

.

'You're never going to  get better' 'Never. Never. Never.'

Pain over pleasure. There's such a thin line between the two. 

                                                                   -brusiedflames

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A/N:  I've never actually done anything like this, but it felt oddly refreshing. 

Track for this chapter: Imaginary Friend- Tove Lo.