Memories are nothing more than random bits of information processed at varies speeds. This is how I remember my childhood. It comes back to me in pieces as my head slams back into the ground. Lift and repeat. Lather, rinse, and dry. Blood runs throughout your body providing oxygen and nutrients to every cell. When blood gets into your eyes it provides nothing at all. Nothing more than pain. How does someone end up reliving all their horrible childhood memories on the cold pavement? I’m not really all that sure anymore.
Where did I go wrong? Politian’s, health-conscious assholes, leftist fascists would say it was when I smoked my first cigarette. Signed a one-way ticket to hell by today’s standards. God would I kill for one right now. Just to feel the smoke hit the back of my throat and shoot down into my lungs would make all of this a little bit more bearable. I wonder what heroin would be like in this scenario. I wonder what food will taste like as my teeth fall to the ground. Will anything ever taste the same again or will it always taste like blood? I don’t think the iron, rust like taste will never leave my mouth. I always speak my mind maybe that’s how I ended up here. The more my head hits the ground the more I forget. In the end all we have is our memories. The good ones and the bad ones. Our memories are all we have. For some reason, the only memory that keeps popping up is the time I learned to tie my shoes. Maybe because when all is said and down here. I’ll never be able to do that again. Funny how after all of this something so significant won’t even matter. Too defiant anyways. Never really learned to tie my shoes. Found a way, but not the way I was taught. The memory still comes breaking through.
My stepmother left me in a chair all day with the same story that I could get up if I tied them the dumbass way she showed me. With the bunny ears or something. The instructions are still lost on me, but the torture is clear. “If you tie your shoes we can go to the beach.” I used to love the beach. I used to love a lot of things. Too bad we were in the middle of fuck all Indiana where there is no such thing. She paraded around in a bathing suit and beach bag as if we would leave as soon as I miracle my shoes laces together. What kind of sick fuck does that to a child? The company you keep I guess. Too defiant maybe that is how I ended up where I am. Too strong-willed and stubborn to tie my shoes. To listen to anyone else.
My head hurts so much that my face has gone numb. I’ve been trying to pick myself up, but my head feels as though it weighs too much. Leaning into the punches is not helping any. I say lean but it is more of a sway. Confused by what it is I am even doing. I’ve got nothing left. Everything I had was all used up before I even got here. A teacher once told me that you come into this world with nothing and you leave it with nothing. I can see her old wrinkled out face mouthing the words, but the world has gone silent. Gone away into the distance that is my existence. She was full of shit. You come into this world screaming and you leave it with pain. The constant that doesn’t let you forget. Can’t change much when your life flashes.
Can’t change much when you know you are going to die. Can’t take away the things that you have done. Can’t forget the time that you pissed on the street corner as the neighbor’s daughter watched. Can’t take back the punishment. The belt that struck over and over again. Not even the truth can set you free after it is all said and done. That she wanted you too. No, you are only left with the memories of a childhood you wish you could forget. Can’t change the time you climbed a tree you were told not to climb. Ended up in the hospital for not listening on that one. Should have stayed in the tree. Why didn’t I just stay in the tree? Can’t change the time you got a girl pregnant and waited in the abortion clinic waiting room. Scarred out of your mind, sad for the life you wasted, and too young to realize they are one in the same. No, none of that will ever change. Time can’t change after it is already past. Time can’t change after you’re dead. Your impressions, actions stay with those you’ve affected long after your gone. Actions speak louder than words yet the words of those around you in circle your every thought.
Don’t do this, do that, why do you got to be such a little shit, clean up your room already, have you been drinking, this is for your own good, tell me what happened, happy birthday, please take the dog out, win some and you lose some, thou shall not kill, I hate you, why couldn’t you have been better, clean your face, you disgust me, this is what you deserve, I love you. Some good and some bad they all flood in as if they should mean something, but they don’t. Is now really the time to reflect on all of this? Maybe I just wanted freedom. Maybe it was only love. Maybe it was both. I don’t know what anyone could ever want out of a world like this.
For some reason, they have stopped. Could be because I’ve stopped fighting? Maybe because they know it is already done? I can feel a smile come across my face as the hits start back up. Their anger in this world somehow more intense than my own. I want to laugh, but do I dare? I can still feel as though that all of this is some kind of prize at the end of a long game. The words aren’t clear in my head anymore. Here and gone. Trapped and freed. I feel cold yet warm. But all I really feel is pain.
Broken Thoughts Vol 1: Between Me and You Now Available On Amazon
“I tried to quit smoking recently and it didn’t go well. Go
well is a bit of an understatement really. In the aftermath though I realized a
few things about myself. Turns out I wasn’t addicted to smoking or some oral
fixation, which sounds like I will suck on anything pointed at my face by the
way. No, the reason I can’t stop inhaling dried leaves laced with additives and
chemicals is because I am addicted to a much darker thought. I am addicted to
the thought of death. Even if it is a slow drawn out death. One filled with
hacking and an overall weathering of my body as I watch myself slowly extinguish
like the very thing I love. I am fixated on the thought of death to just stop
myself from killing myself. Does that make sense? In some ways we are self-destructive.
That isn’t a new idea in this world.
Some of us shoot shit into our veins. Others barrel down the road in hopes that
a child doesn’t pop up in a school zone. I put something to my lips and take a
deep breath. We as humans are addicted to destroying ourselves. On purpose or
by circumstance we can’t give it up. I can’t think of one thing that I do that
isn’t killing me in some way. Which may be a good reason to give up one that I
know will, but why? What’s really in it for me? Life always ends in the same
whether we want it to or not. Right or wrong all we have in life is faith that
we are doing what is best for ourselves even if it is not. Our judgements and
our thoughts are ours, but sometimes there is no need to express every last
one. The mind is a terrible thing to waste and sometimes hearing a piece of it
can be too much to handle. Opinions maybe like assholes and everyone’s got one,
but it doesn’t mean we want to hear them,” I spill out. “Yes, these are all valuable
points Layne, but what were you thinking about at the time?” The lady with the
clip board asks me. “I prefer Ambrose,” I inform her. “My apologies Ambrose,
but please answer the question,” she says in a way that lets me know that she
doesn’t care. This is another job. Another moron she has to deal with. “Those
were my exact thoughts give or take a few on the spot additions. I tend to
fixate on an idea and kind of “black out” or chew on that idea for a while.
Well until something else pisses me off or annoys me. Then I switch to that
one,” I ramble on. She give me a look that I have seen before. Everyone gives
me that look whenever I try to explain myself. Same look just before they roll their eyes.
“Those were your exact thoughts when you were,” she pauses
to flip through some papers on her clipboard. “Ah yes, here we are,” she
finally says before turning the clipboard towards me. She shows me a picture of
the aftermath of my actions. I try to not look at the picture, but when it is
basically shoved in your face it is hard to look away. “Those were your
thoughts when you did this?” She asks again. I fidget against the restraints
they have me in, “I mean give or take. Yeah that is what I was thinking about.”
She turn the clipboard back to herself and flips back to where she left off. “How does it make you feel doing what you did
to that innocent lady?” she asks me. “Well it doesn’t make me feel good, but let’s
not throw around the word innocent so loosely. I mean if you would have heard
what she had to say and the way she was saying it. My actions might almost seem
justified. I mean in the right circle,” I try to joke. “Justified? This isn’t a
joke Mr. Ambrose. I’d hardly call decapitating a defenseless woman in front of
her children justified because she was simply informing you about the harm you
were doing to yourself,” she says all butt hurt. “Words, words, words it is all
about how you say them. That’s the thing about perception. I’ll tell you one
thing. Those children learned a valuable lesson that day,” I say in a less
playful tone. “What possible lesson could those poor children have learned from
you that day?” She asks with fire burning in her eyes. “Besides the obvious? Those
kids learned that sticks and stone will hurt them, but words will surely kill
me,” I let off a dark sinister laugh.
Horrified the doctor gets up from her chair. “You are sick Layne Ambrose,” the doctor tries to say over all of my laughing. “You haven’t been paying attention,” I say in a low tone between all the laughing. She stares at me. Puzzled as I leap at her from across the coffee table. Dislocating my thumb before I leaped at her I knock her to the floor. I sit on top of her as she tries to fight me off. She isn’t strong enough to get me off of her. I pop my arm thumb back into socket and grab the pen the lays next to us. “Help,” she screams. “Help me,” she struggles to say as I put my hand on her throat. “Someone,” she fights to say as I stab the pen into her neck over and over again. She slowly stops fighting me, but I can see the life still left in her eyes. I release my hand from her throat as more blood rushes from her wound. A large hole in the side of her neck. “You think I am sick?” I ask her. “You think? Maybe the next one will be smart enough to keep their opinions to themselves,” I get up off of her and head back towards my chair. “I think we are going to need some help in here,” I shout as loud as I can. “This one seems to be leaking.”
So if you remember
last year I tried to do this whole insane asylum story arc?… When There Is No More Room…. This story was actually an out take of that
story… well it was supposed to be the catalyst to the doctor character getting
the big job… very early on idea… because eventually I decided to make that
whole story pretty much take place in the past… so me being a live in the 50’s
is a bit of stretch… so why am I in the story?… that seems weird… and it is…
but it also isn’t… even before No More
So.. so.. long ago… in
another galaxy… I had this other idea
for a novel… I still might do it… but even after all these years I still haven’t
come up with a way to not make me seem like a self-centered asshole… which I am
but it doesn’t have to be so obvious… the idea any way was to create a vast
network of short stories that all involved me in some way… so this one… another
that takes place in outer space… where one of the characters drops a line like…
“Have you heard about what’s going on down there? Have you heard about Layne Ambrose?”… all
different genres… all different stories… all involving me…
Yeah… let that soak in… it is a dumb ass idea… but early on… it seemed like the coolest idea ever… whenever you start something new… ideas seem easy to come by… not good ideas… or even great ones… those take years… and that is what I learned in all the years that I have been writing… this was a one off story I wanted to share… give you a taste of what could have been… and will most likely never be… you didn’t ask for it… but you are more than welcome….
We are playing The Ungame one last time this cycle… I pick six random ass questions from the stack… and away we go…
Turn 1… If You Were Convinced That Reincarnation Was A Fact, How Would You Like To Come Back?
No real need to convince me of reincarnation… fingers crossed that all of this is to come back once again… who wants to only live one life… from one perspective?… boring… This one is pretty easy for me… I would want to come back as a bird… unsure what bird though… being a penguin would be amazing… gliding through the endless ocean… dodging death at every turn… living in the cold… but I would want the ability to fly high above the earth… or to be able to fly at all…see everything in a way I could never in this life time… go anywhere my body could take me… not have to live in the restraints of a society I was born into…
To me being a bird means freedom… freedom to do whatever it is that you want… being any animal seems to be that way… but knowing life I’m sure that we are all stuck in some sort of cage…
Turn 2… Complete The Statement; “One Thing I Missed During My Childhood Was…”
Hmm… I’d have to say I was pretty lucky… sure maybe I could have used a Dad… didn’t but maybe I could have… could have spent more time with my extended family… didn’t but oh well… I wouldn’t really say I missed anything because it is hard to know what you missed if you didn’t know about it… everything could go one way or another… and I’m pretty content on how my life turned out… if I had to pick something though… I would say the sense of home…
I move around a lot as a child… and even into my young adulthood… which is something that is actually hard to complain about… I’ve seen and lived in place that some people have dreamed of living or seeing… some people have worked their whole lives to be able to do what I had the opportunity to do… so I’m not going to go on some long rant about how I missed all this shit I didn’t know about… but sometimes I get jealous of others… that didn’t go anywhere… that idea that no matter where they go in this world… they can always go home…
That is a pretty strong… comforting feeling… I only have one place out of all the places that I have lived that I consider “home”… and I can never go back to that place… it was a time and place I can never get back too… maybe that is how it is for others and I don’t know… or maybe it isn’t… one of life’s many mysteries…
Turn 3… What Makes You Laugh?
haha… some dark ass shit… my line for comedy is pretty thin… would I laugh at my own mothers death?… maybe… what’s the joke?… I tend to not get so offended by what people say… because people say a lot of shit… an ungodly amount of shit really… and I fit right into that… maybe it is from being ugly… being bullied as a child… but it takes a lot for me to get angry rather than laugh… so much so that I get in “trouble” for just saying whatever in person… I tend to not think about what it is that I am saying… or who I am saying it to… and sometimes… I may or not have crossed a few lines…
Things that make me laugh… murder… serial killers… missed placed words… miss placed actions… new age rappers names… death… life… race… humanity… dogs… cats… fail videos… too much man ass in a movie or show… sex… stupidity… myself… my daughter… people trying to hard… slapstick… comments… and stupid shit… I’ll laugh at anything… and even when I don’t… I tend to laugh at the situation…
Turn 4… If There Is Unnecessary Laughing – Some People Might Be Afraid To Share Their Feelings. Be Aware of the Mood You Create! Take another card.
This made me laugh…
Turn 5… Say Something About Earthquakes.
They can move the earth… How is this even a question?… they just got lazy on a few of these… fun fact… I have been through a few earthquakes… nothing horrific as the ones on the news… but there are places on earth where they just happen… no big deal… lose a picture frame or lamp and move on… those types are actually pretty fun… I rather enjoyed them… the ones where people die?… fuck that… That would not be fun at all…
Turn 6… Do You Ever Feel Lonely? When?
This is two questions… lazy writing… learn the rules of your own game… avoiding the question maybe?… I get lonely because I am human… It doesn’t happen often because I was an only child… so I can feel it… but I move on from it rather quickly in general… The loneliness I feel when I am not around my wife and daughter… is a little hard to move past…
I feel that constantly… right now… even… I want to write and get some work done… but I miss them… wonder what they are doing… what we will do later… I would say that the idea of loneliness has changed a lot for me over time… I wouldn’t call it a learned behavior… I’m sure that I was lonely a lot as a child… but I didn’t know it… so maybe that is why I overcompensate so much as an adult… I’ve been called clinging… haha… yeah me… but for the most part… I love to be alone… It is all I really know… I find so many things to do in this idea of alone… sometimes it can be hurtful but for me it is relaxing…
What?… I think people who are only child’s will understand what I mean… everyone else maybe not so much… so many sides to a coin… I can admit though that the feeling of being a lone is very overwhelming… but so is the idea that there is always someone there… there needs to be a balance… just like with everything in life… in truth though we are never truly a lone… that is one thing I have learned from this life… and this website…
There is a line we do not cross Hop over it once and it’s all your fault Step over it again and find out what’s wrong Thin lines grow between hearts and breaks Thin lines grow between us Keeping us apart yet very much the same There are lines we do not cross Reach over them once and it’s all your fault Fall over it again and find out what’s wrong Thin lines grow between souls and life Thin lines grow within us Keeping us together yet very much the same
“What do you got there Sylvia?” An orderly asks. Her young frame hunched over an open notebook. She pretends to not hear the question. “Hey Sylvia,” he calls out once again. As the youngest patient in the asylum he isn’t used to her teenage attitude in this dark dingy place overcrowded with pain, neglect, and isolation. “Nothing, just something I have been working on to pass the time,” she answers. “Did you not hear me the first time?” He ask. “I heard you,” she says into her notebook. “Okay, well maybe sometime you could show me what you have been working on,” he smiles. She looks up at him, “Yeah maybe.” She buries her head back into her notebook. The orderly shakes his head and walks over to the other side of the room to talk to the other patients in the recreation room. “So what are you working on Harold?” She hears him ask the only other patient not drugged out of their mind. She picks up her pen.
I’m so depressed here. I wish I never “volunteered” to be admitted. Should have just run away again or finished what I started. I’ve been rubbing the scars again. No one would listen to me outside of this walls or inside them. I should have known he would have sent me to a place that wouldn’t listen. This place is like school. “Sylvia stop your lying.” Maybe I’m not lying. Maybe you aren’t listening. The deep jagged cuts down my arm don’t help me to forget. The pain is long gone from the last time, but somehow still linger in my mind. Thought maybe if I wasn’t pretty anymore. Wasn’t perfect then maybe. It doesn’t matter what I thought. How many times am I going to tell myself the same thing? How many times am I going to justify trying to kill myself? No one cares why it happened as long as it isn’t happening. I’m safer here than at home. That’s what is important. As long as I keep my volunteer status he can’t hurt me. As long as I am here I am safe. The reason doesn’t matter anymore. No one is going to stop him, but at least I did.
The orderly makes his way back over to her. His footsteps echo within the room. She closes up her notebook, “Yes Charles?” He checks his watch, “I’ve been reminded to remind you that your next appointment is in a five minutes.” She rolls her eyes, “Funny how that seems to be the case every week.” He smiles and pretends that her attitude isn’t bothering him. A talent he learned from his two girls at home. “It is quite odd. Might have to do something about that,” he jokes. “Them doing anything here would be a first,” she says as she gets up from her chair and walks away.
The door to the doctor’s office is open slightly as she knocks on the door. “Come in. How are we doing today Sylvia?” The doctor asks as he looks at a chart that isn’t even hers. “Fine, I guess. Same as always,” she mocks. “You know you can leave whenever you want? Maybe go back home and spend some time with your family. Wouldn’t that be nice?” He asks without looking at her once. “I’m sure they miss me immensely. At least that is what they would want you to believe, but I’m certain I am just fine right here,” she looks down at her scars once again. “Yeah, I’m sure you’re right. I’ll make a call to your parents and tell them you are ready to go home,” he says. “I didn’t say that at all,” she says. “I just want to tell you Sarah we made some real progress in the time that you have been here,” the doctor rattles off. “My name is Sylvia,” she says in anger. “Yes, I am aware and I don’t want you to worry. I’m going to write you a script for some mood suppressors. You don’t have to take them, but if you feel all the anxiety coming back on I want you to feel safe,” the doctor says. “I feel safe here. I want to stay here,” She tries to reason. “Change is good for you. You have been here too long. It’s time for you to go home. I know your father misses you every much. I have been keeping him updated and he seems as optimistic as I am about your recovery,” he looks up from his chart. “So go ahead and get your things ready for tomorrow. That seems like a perfect place to end today,” he gives off a weak smile. Sylvia begins to cry. The tears falling from her eyes to her arms and running along her scars, “I don’t want to go.” The nurse comes in and places a hand on her shoulder. “Nurse remind me that I need to call her parents in a bit and if you could have Charles bring in the next patient that would be wonderful,” the doctor asks. “Yes, sir. Come on Sylvia let’s get you back to your room,” the nurse says to her. “But I don’t want to go,” she begins to sob. “I know dear. I know,” the nurse says as she rubs her shoulder. The doctor goes back to his file as the nurse escorts Sylvia from the room.
“There she is,” Charles calls out as he walks by her open door. “Glad to see you writing again,” he says to her. She doesn’t respond to him as she sits still at her desk. Memories flooding her mind. “Wanted to check in on you. Heard you were pretty upset earlier,” he says to more silence. “Also heard you were going home tomorrow too. That is good news,” he tries to sound excited. “Mind If I take a look at what you are writing? I understand if you don’t feel like talking,” Charles suggest. “Very much so. It is private,” she snaps at him. “I see you are excited about leaving tomorrow,” he snaps back. “Maybe even sooner,” she says under her breath. “What?” Charles asks concerned. “I said I want you to leave. Did you not hear me the first time,” Sylvia screams at him with tears in her eyes. “I just want you to know that I am here if you need to talk,” Charles says in a caring voice before walking out of the room. Sylvia quickly gets up from her chair and slams the door behind him. Only doors don’t slam here. She pushes all her weight against the door to try and get it to close faster. Tears streaming down her face as she struggles. Despite living in the same room for the past six months her room is nearly bare. A bed, a dresser, and a desk. “Her desk,” she thinks to herself. Her father’s money was at least good for something in this place. A private room and her own desk, but they wouldn’t let her have her pens. Not after what happened. They gave her special hospital pens, but only after she had developed trust. She couldn’t do much of anything with those useless things any way. She calms down enough to return to her desk and flips open the note book to where she left off.
There is a silence It is a constant There is a sadness It is a constant There are so many things And they are all constant I can taste the blood on the page I can feel the sweat on the page I can see the tears on the page As each drop becomes the page Why doesn’t anyone understand
Sylvia tosses the note book as hard as she can. It bursts open as it smashes against the wall. Papers, words, time falls to the floor. She begins to sob at the thought of the words, “I know your father misses you very much.” Visions of the past fill her mind. Remembering the pain. Remembering the fear of it all. Remembering that no one would listen. No one cared. “How could you ever say a thing like that about your father,” her mother’s words echo in her mind. Only to be replaced by the memory of his touch and his words. “You are so beautiful. My perfect little angel,” his words like poison slipping into her mind. You are confused at first. Why now? Why this? So you fight it the best you can, but the fight becomes useless. The whole thing becomes normal. A daily routine that you can’t wash away from your mind. The thought becomes clear. If I’m no longer perfect then it will stop. The memory of the pain from before washes over her once again. Make myself imperfect. Make it go away. The blood drips on the floor. It stains the carpet, but they clean it and they move on. It never stops the abuse. The monster doesn’t care if you are perfect. The monster doesn’t care at all. Deeper you dig. Deeper you find yourself in pain. Deeper until you think that it is over. Until you find yourself here and know that it is. Sylvia reaches under her desk to grab the item hidden beneath. When she got here she was hopeful that it would never have to be used again, but deep down she knew someday she would need a way out. She holds the jagged piece of mental in her hands. “We don’t even know what she cut herself on,” he mother told the hospital. Squeezing all her anger and the pain into it. “Here we go again,” she thinks. “A conclusion I can no longer hide away from.” She holds the broken piece of metal in her hand. She gently places it on her desk and opens her last remaining note book.
“When we bleed it is only to cleanse our souls. It’s like letting the air out of the tires every now and then. Sometimes it hurts more than others, but the hurt never compares to the pain. The hurt feels good in a way. The pain doesn’t. I wish someone would have listened to me. Anyone at this point. I wish I could explain the pain that I am in, but for some reason, I can’t. It could be the lack of blood still left within me or my ever lack of words associated with the pain. Pain is nothing like the hurt. The hurt comes and goes, but the pain. The pain is always there. Every once in a while I found myself here in this place. This dark hole surround by all the pain I don’t understand. This place of self-loathing and hate. I control my own destiny, right? Or have I just misheard some well-placed advice? Maybe I don’t control anything since no matter my choices I always end up here. I always end up with this pain. No one cares, but everyone’s still listening. I know it is not my fault and maybe it still is. Should have never. Should have done things differently. This has to be for the best. Nothing else left to do. Except release myself from this burden. Release me from this hole. I tried. I really did. Maybe not enough or in the way I should have….”
This is a work of fiction, but sadly the concept behind it is not. This story is lived day in and day out by an unknown amount of children. Many of whom do not reach out. It is not normal and it is not okay. If you or someone you know is being abused. Please reach out for help and never stop reaching out for help. Help is always there even when it feels like the whole world won’t listen to you. Click the links below to find help or to find out how you can help those in need.You are not powerless and you are loved.
I debated on how graphic I wanted to get with this story… from the suicide to the abuse… I debated for a long time… this story kind of took a life of it’s own… I started the story with the idea to write a back story to a previous character… Sylvia from Purgatory… seemed pretty simple… I liked the character a lot from that story… I liked her attitude… I liked who she could have been… seeing how everyone in that story is dead already when we meet them… I wanted to do a sequel…
The original idea for Sylvia was to write out a “love story” where she explains what her scars are from to the main character of Purgatory… (Fun fact… I only kept writing that story because of her… Sylvia to me was the thread that held that early story together for me…) but I don’t do love stories very well… and I wasn’t sure how she had gotten her scars… In the original story she never says… she hides them when ever she can… spark… “why?”… and the more I thought about it… the more it became the story above… Of course when I came up for air I found myself someplace very far from a “love story”…
The first couple of drafts had way more detail… way more things that didn’t need to be said… and I’m not afraid to say certain things… I’ve got stories toprove it… but this one seemed different… though this didn’t happen to me personally… it felt personal… which made this one that much harder to write… as an observer it is always easier to write something when you are not attached to the subject… I of course didn’t want anything to ever happen to Sylvia… I don’t want anything to happen to anyone… and sadly these things do… So I didn’t want to just file it away and pretend like these things don’t happen… That these things could never happen…
Sometimes the hardest things to say are the ones that need to be said the most…
Standing beside the devil at the gates of hell There’s no heaven for someone like me Laid down before Christ Kissed his feet Hoping I won’t be the only one that’s died Best one could hope for a silent death Stripping the flesh inch for inch Killing the idea of you was never meant to be easy Taking breath for breath, taking a life Welcome home tattooed across my skin In blood, in blood we learn what freedom is Never forget who you really are A devil saint masquerading as a demon One in the fucking same, no different from the next Who I am and what you’ll be What is it that the world made me A puppet, a pawn, my new plaything Smile, this is all God ever asked from you The blood only a part of the process Smile, gave you all that you needed Never good enough, no one ever will be Need more to understand What I’ve become Same as you only worse Never give anything You aren’t willing to lose
Testing Out The Thoughts In My Head
Dragging the blade against the skin What was it that you once said No one could ever be a beautiful as you Testing the theory that it was all in my head How quickly you changed Now who is the one begging I was dead Dragging the blade against the skin Tearing out all the dirty thoughts Where do I begin, trapped within No one could ever be as clean as you Testing the theory that it was all in my head How quickly I changed Now who is the one suggesting medicine Dragging the blade against the skin Carving out all the pieces I adore Being so selective never felt so good What was it you once said No one could be as perfect as you I beg to differ on the subject Testing the theory that it was all in my head How quickly your pleas turn into threats Now who is the one begging I quit Dragging the blade against the skin I wish I could live in Worship me as I have always you Be mine so we can end these stupid games Promise me you’ll always be as beautiful As I make you Obsession leads to creativity Testing out all the thoughts in my head
Got pretty dark in here… That first one started off as a Broken Thought… then it kept going… had to change the whole theme of my post… was originally going to talk about the sun and how life is so beautiful… really just the beauty of life… the normal things I like to talk about really… but then this dark cloud came out of nowhere… sometimes life is about riding the wave of emotions… maybe next time on Cuddling with Glass…. (That still sounds pretty painful… There’s nothing soft, warm, or fuzzy about glass… other options… Gluing with Glass… Blowing with Glass… if you came up with anything post it in the comments…)