Acosmist Dysphoria

Get used to it

I Used to keep a diary.
I thought. Maybe someday,
Far in the future.
That someone, anyone it didn't matter to me,
Would find it.
That someone would hold the velvet spine that
Held the delicate petal papers that house my pain.
That someone would be able to make sense of the
Black nothingness that poured off my tongue and stained the
Silk.
Maybe I meant something, maybe the floating eyes and raging mouths
Were wrong, maybe i could have a legacy.
I made the mistake though.
The mistake of ever thinking i meant anything,
Legacy means nothing if the pages are ripped,
Legacy means nothing if the black stains the silk
To the point of no return.
Legacy is a lie.
I've ripped the pages and barfed black.
No one cares,
get used to it.