I Traded My Youth For All These Scars
Ugly tattoos. Non-existent photo albums. A burning desire to make the devil laugh. It’s pretty much all I have to remind me of 43 years on this planet. Don’t talk to me. I’m not interested in talking. Unless you’re just going to shut the fuck up and listen. That right there interests me.
I don’t need anyone. Especially the ones who aren’t ever here. I don’t reach out to the ones I love the most. Even in my darkest moments when the most benevolent grace shines a light down on my worst intentions. I don’t reach out. I prefer the cold.
Please don’t be arrogant enough to think I could possibly get lonely. Your love is weak, and at best a nightmare car crash. Do you believe I am thinking of you? You weren’t designed to comprehend me. We’re not in this together. There is no we. There is no together. There is only that sick little feeling inside you knowing that you can’t rub up against my soul.
Death cries out. I empathize. Death won’t let me down in the end. Death is the only one I can count on.
I don’t live my life for you. I don’t live my life for me. Things don’t happen for a reason, you stupid fucking arrogant cunts. There are only reasons things happen. Your self deceit is so fucking pleasing because the alternative is too god damn terrifying. Grow the fuck up. I refuse to condescend to your bad fucking case of wishful thinking.
It will all end in darkness.