pills make everything better
im sick. disgusted. worn.
im hurt. blood soaked. gone.
i hate too much. and its consuming the inner being that lives in my stomach, the one that use to smile and play with butterflies. She could do anything, now all she know is how to use a blade.
They almost never really healed right. Never wanted to close. Waking up in the middle of the night to feel the drip of blood, down the ear, between the folds. It was a regular thing. Mothers walking in, in the morning to see blood covered necks, and oddly enough getting used to the sight. Star wars sheets. Blood stained. It was expected. A sacrifice, for the greater good. She never understood why they had to put it on his face, his beautiful face. In diapers and Halloween costumes, his deep dimples, bright green eyes. Before the deep scar went through his left dimple and up the bridge of his nose. He stopped smiling after that. Above his lip on the left a jagged remembrance of a rusty blade, for the sake of humanity. He thought of it almost as a jagged smile, silently screaming when the slightest bit of perspiration slipped through its lips. When he laid on his side that was when he was horrified the most, the smile was complete. A single eye they shared. The difference between what he was and what he was made into overlapped in the deep green of his iris. He wanted to crawl under his bed with the other monsters and let them teach him how to be like them. But that wasn’t possible, he had a duty. He had the mark of a warrior now. His hands. Once soft to the touch and gentle, were hard and chaliced like his fathers. Gentle hands were not ones to fire guns. The first time he killed a man, he used a gun. Back then, his face was still scar less, and naive. Not yet a warriors face. Back then; his hands would shake before they pulled the trigger. Not anymore. He held the opening of the gun to the mans head, right above his ear, he remembered noticing a piece of metal through his cartilage. Then he felt a large meaty hand on his shoulder, “do it.” His breath hit the edges of his ear and crawled with in his head, and his brain had fermented in those words ever since. Sleeping was the worst; he had never gotten through one night with out thinking back to that moment. He had hesitated, his hands shook. The man with the earing was screaming, every time he opened his mouth strands of spit flew down. He had never seen a grown man cry like that before. The grip on his shoulder got tighter, “I said do it. You call yourself a man?” The man on the ground was taking deep breaths, and you could hear the air whip through his body, there was snot and spit dripping down on his lips and down his chip. A drop fell off of his face and landed on the ground before him. He started pleading with him, calling for god. The hand on his shoulder dug deeper in his skin, and he felt a scratchy upper lip against his ear. “I said do it.” His chin trembled. He felt wide tears stream down his face. He tightened his hand on his gun. The man looked up to him from the ground, his eyes were a deep green. Just like his. He looked in to his eyes for what seemed like hours. He swallowed hard .The first time he pulled the trigger; he had to shut his eyes. He felt a hard pat on his back, and the words “good job kid” through smiling lips. Then it was over. In the eyes of the nation, he was a man. That night, he got is scar. His mark of a warrior. He came home, with a medal around his neck and a bloody face. When his mother saw him, she began crying. There were no words spoken. He put his gun on the kitchen table, and went to his bed. He didn’t even try to clean up the blood on his face, he wasn’t supposed to. He was supposed to be proud of what he had done. He crawled his between the star wars sheets on his bed and listened to the weeps of his mother. That morning, his mother didn’t wake him up, he walked down the stairs to the kitchen, his gun and medal in the same place he had left it. He found her in the corner of the kitchen with the only documentation that he was ever an innocent in her hands. Then, he just left. There was no goodbye, or good lucks. It went on like that for months, he came home with more medals and she would cry all night. Eventually she was able to wake him up, creep in to his room and wonder how his Legos and footballs turned in to guns and bullets. He would come home with new bruises and cuts, they were unaccompanied by stories of falling off his bike or catching frogs in the river. Sometimes all she could do was just stare at the deep indents in his flesh, they told a story that she never wanted to know. He came home tired, and red eyed. Still, no questions. Long days grew shorter and shorter, and she saw less and less of him.
drinking blood after i brush my teeth wont give me cavities, right?
There’s a whole community of us. We’re all interested in it for different reasons, I guess. I suppose I want to look darkness in the eye and not be afraid. I want to feel the resonance of history and all the bad things people have done and try to understand why. I want to stand inside the Colosseum, feel the vibrations of so much death and despair. I want to walk the corridors of Columbine High. I want to touch the walls of Auschwitz.
Unknown (via wwondersofmyworld)
(Source: i0nize)
Human interaction just makes me miss her more.
Time to crawl under a rock.
Fucking fuck fuck fuck fuck. Fuck.
