“You may have loved me enough to crush my lungs, but you could never handle the weight of my tongue. My words will weigh you down, but I still have a way with you, even now.”

Even in death, I may be removed, but never remissed. The only break I was successful in was in the rules that the world tried to float down to me. Some I broke, some I find already broken. Both are satisfying. My hands will shape the outcome like a face that only knows how to beg to be beaten. Bruises then blood. Blood then scars. Scars then thoughts. Suffering is the only guarantee and usually grows in the form of a memory. You don’t need permission to go into remission, most are ordered to do so. I sit here alone and remember the days that I cared about. I try with everything I have left to remember what made me care about them? I come up just short every time. I am not that person anymore. I have graduated to the next level of self torture and harm, probably with honors. Not the harm that you will see, but the harm that will stain your happiness if only for a moment if you stare long enough in my eyes. Watery and weepy. Feelings I tried to bury, but they only grew back out of the filth and dirt I piled in a hurried fashion. Human qualities erode, but always tug on the brain stem physically and metaphorically reminding me why my world spins and my vision distorts. My voice bleak and let out with such a croak that creates attraction like your thrill towards death. Your panties soaked with every word I manage to force out in an indescribable tone only to detail how we will hurt each other. Let me reshape your scars and make them into something you want to stare at.

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