my mom always told me to smile, because I looked better that way.
I knew she meant well, but from the start I could tell that something was wrong. is, wrong.
my only reaction was that a smile is just a frown upside down.
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I knew it wasn't real. I knew yoongi never did it, but.. but why was it me?
he's way too good for me.
my head swarms with so many dark thoughts, he would've scampered away like the rest because I'm that horrific.
I'm not beautiful, I'm not smart, I'm not yoongi's.. but I want him.
I want him.
so bad, I want min yoongi.
do you think.. it's my fault? do you think he would've stayed?
hilarious.
in the end moses was never the one with an identity disorder.
i was.
🍒
my lungs burned as I sat on the rooftop of some sort of tattoo shop, the umpteenth cigarette from just that night sitting perched between my lips as the tip sparkled a cancerous red.
I hated cigarettes, but I also hated myself more.
I wanted to hurt myself, I wanted yoongi.
I was just that cliché depressed church kid; deprived of humanity as I hadn't lived like a normal boy.
I lived like a fucking Jesus boy.
I might as well be the devil, because seeing crucifixes wherever I went made me wince like a bee had stung beneath my heart.
"sorry, I'm sorry baby, I'm no good to you,"
puffs of smoke circled the midnight air, the dying vermilion light fully put out as I crushed it beneath my worn pair of doc martens.
the rebellious outfit and all; ripped skinny jeans and a choker with messy purple hair, ear piercings, a garter belt around my thigh and a loose red t-shirt with a rose-embroidered bomber jacket that smelled like cologne, drugs, and alcohol.
I had sung to the universe, stretching my voice used for prayers as a plea for mercy.
I didn't deserve it.
I only wanted min yoongi. I didn't want mercy, I didn't want death, I only wanted my fucking yoongi.
🍒
"you ruined everything, jiminie! you destroyed it!"
