.slit wrist sanctuary.
is what they would like to call it. but my arms are clean.
and my mind is dirty. dusty.
I'd sell my soul. but I tortured it to death.
and no one wants a second-hand saviour. not even me.

broken-hearted. fuck-it-alls. and semi-coherent somethings.
my fists are sore from speaking in syllabic. -holeinthewall- agony.
some might call it glory. my knuckles are bloody.
like my words.
and I wouldn't have it any other way.
unless I had a choice. then I'd change every-fucking-thing.
most likely.

inking verses of pain. plastic pleasure and realistic horror.
it's so easy to lie. when life is in black and white.
the gray matter shows too much.
and I'd rather it stay out of focus.

I'd rather not care. than cry.
and that scares me.

a moment-monger. without a plan of action.
I just want to trash whatever's left in the ruins and watch it burn.
then piss on the ashes.
and wish for some kind of fulfillment.
but wishing requires hope. and hope is just a word.
with words being all I have. I'm torn.
when I should've been ripped.


and I'm not worth the time
it would take to find myself again.
and I don't think I can be bothered to keep looking.

[my words are useless]

and I wouldn't have it any other way.
unless I had a choice. I'd erase it all.

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