I was promised the world: and I have nothing. I was promised a future: and I have none. I was promised a cure, but I am still poison. I'm still poison. I push away those I want most and I don't even know I'm doing it. My black touch is chemical and it burns. I lock myself away so that I cannot cause any harm, so that I cannot draw anyone in and by default, cannot hurt myself, let alone anyone else. Alone I am better, alone I survive, alone I convince myself its alright. But it is not, and I know that every time the sun goes down the darkness surrounds me. I know then that it is not okay. I know then that my touch is poison and my soul is black and my heart is gone. In the dark I know that I just exist, I know what I am. I know that I don't live, I'm just kind of here. I was promised a cure but I'm still poison. I am still poison.
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Historia Corta[In Edit] Summer train journey's. What better inspiration for a collection of shorts stories. The concept for this book was birthed on a train but has continued to flourish long after the train left the tracks. From April to September 2016 I had to...
