I’m a heartless bitch. Cynical to the core. Welcome to my world. The devil is my lover and I lust for insanity. You can’t tame me, so join me in wild ecstasy. I suffer in joy. Take a photograph, the fucked up subject framed by experience. The dripping canvas, its artist slumped over a chair dead, the piece unfinished. This is what it’s like inside my head. Take it or leave.
The shadows dancing on the walls make all the mundane shit worthwhile. At least heaven is a place of mercy. The puppets talk the lies of scripted madness. I get to think and laugh. Too many princesses losing their crowns, while the princes are out finding themselves. I’ve shot that gun, and felt the bullet enter my heart. Slowly it works forward, and the pain seeps in as the blood flows out.
This design is already drawn, and the lines won’t cover the bodies. With the pencil in my hand, it’s easy to make change. But I’m running out of time. I can count each instance that screwed me over. The dreams that were equal parts of nightmares. Screaming makes me smile, I can hear my voice over the crowd.
You struggle to understand, and I can see it in your eyes. The deep pits that span emptiness and weaken your mind. Maybe that’s where the sickness breeds. Duplicating in utter rancor. The fragments that you took from the blank faces, are starting to fade.
Tonight is special for us both. When was the last time you were asked to feel? I bet you don’t remember whistling carefree, and truly happy. As far as I can tell, that’s because you never were. That’s right, I’m calling you out on your bullshit, pathetic excuse of a life. You’re alive but you are far from living.
I on the other hand am close to death, and I love it. I eat hungrily at the bones, chewing for the marrow. Biting to taste truth. Licking my lips and holding back the urge to fight. I’m volatile, dangerous, exploding in confinement. The knife in my hand doesn’t mean anything, don’t worry I won’t cut through your worthless existence. I have social graces, and nine lives.
So do you still worship your busted idols? Is there some smidgen of hope that keeps you clinging to the divine. You curse me. Telling me I’m envious with paranoia. Is that why I’m thriving, while you’re surviving?
I’ve got plenty of scars they tattoo my skin. You’re too smooth. Fuck perfection! Damn it, I want love. You’re only giving me a false dichotomy, and I’m swallowing it hook, line, and sinker. I can tell you’re proud. I snap at every opportunity, and regret all but a few. At least I don’t have to pretend to enjoy the reactions. I see it all. Listening to the thumping heart in your chest makes me quiver. What a cunt I am, facing you, hoping it kills me.
You forgot that I call the shots. I write the tale, and I’ll be the victor. You can sit back and relax. It’s okay, I’m sure you’ll get used to it. After all, you didn’t really need me, did you?