the way i see things

cemetery drive

"Back home off the run
Singing songs that make you slit your wrists
It isn't that much fun
Staring down a loaded gun"

i always did and will always continue to admire the headstones of the forever resting.
morbid curiosity always had me wondering what the corpses looked like, despite already knowing they're festering.
when i was younger i sat by these eternal resting places and read or talked to them. i found them to be lonely.
the highly empathetic child looked at the field of ragweed growing over the dead, and whispered "look at all the pretty flowers"
despite the weeds littering the cemetery.

my mother's fondest memory of me.

they found everything to have beauty
and as they got older they could find beauty in everyone and everything except themself.

they found comfort in the blood that washed down the drain, the smell of fizzing hydrogen peroxide, the copper taste of gore that dripped off a burned razor blade. the blade barked and bit at the skin, causing it to cry crimson.

i had found a different type of beautiful.

"do you know what you're doing to your body?"
if i didn't know what i was doing, why would i try?
of course i do. i was trying to die.