No more.

 

The guilt, the anger, the pain. It's all too heavy. Take it away. Sit back and watch another angry teenager unravel and give in to the inner demons she herself has created. I speak in vague-tongue as to not offend any of those who take offense to everything, I speak in vague-tongue as to not hurt the already wounded. Take that. Your number, I lost it. Sorry about that. Your name, can't remember, sorry. Your face? Never seen you before in my life. Walk on. Chained to the walls, dingy with mildew, the smell of old hanging around like a thick fog, amongst the dirt in the crevices that I dig my feet into. Welcome to my prison. Wrists wretched and bruised, fists bleeding. I could hit you. Ha, you don't believe in me. You don't think I even exist, do you? Not everyone is as shallow as you, not everyone is as perfect as you. And as for your levels, well, you're at the top of everyone's list of course. My poetry, my prose, my words, all in vain to a God that doesn't exist. Another love entry. Leave, then. No one forces you to listen, to read, to talk. No one forces you to care. Then don't. You are what binds you here. The chains you have locked, the doors you have slammed, the blood you have drank. It's all you. Powerless, so it seems, yet I hold it all in a clenched fist, too afraid to let go. She with the most problems wins. And it wasn't me. The last flower in the garden when winter's frost nears, freezing my core of solitude. Its better this way. Take your talents, take your drinks, take your ambitions and run with it. Far away from me. You are toxic. You are dead. Frozen to me. Take your drugs, your insincerities, your motorcycles and leave. Close the door. Don't look back. There's nothing more to see, here. In a vessel so positively sure of its choices, it has none at all. And it beats, shallowly, slowly, until it finally stops. And you're gone. I don't want to look into those empty, sullen eyes ever again. Touched by music, by words, by everyone but me. Fly away. I can't close my eyes without seeing her face. I can't reach out my hand without touching her grace. I can't breathe without wanting to erase. Save me from me. I have lied. I have stole. I have hurt. I am never within my confines and I am a social misfit with nowhere to go because I am stubborn in my forced opinions of freedom, an idea that ceases to exist in the eyes of medication. Write your brilliance, take your showers, drive long winding roads. Run through wet grass barefoot and forget my name. You never knew me. I never existed. I am a ghost in translucent skins of invisible rose petals and grenades, amongst billowing sheaths of white dancing in the breeze. I am falling down, another tower, complete devastation. Static.  Don't bother calling. Don't bother writing. I am gone gone gone on the back of a bullet, through pink. Disillusioned by a metmorphosis that was never complete. Drive on, toward the dead end you're headed for. Don't mind the laughter, it's only mine. Wicked, she smiled. This is my moment of lucidity.

 

 

"What are you doing?" He asked.

"Living." She said.