another hopeless one.

God gave me a lot of things. Unfortunately, one of them was the keen ability to hate myself. Too many times today, I wished to disappear in a mug, or be blown away with the frighteningly strong wind. Or perhaps to become notes on a page, simple and permanent, lending to a greater sound than the pathetic one I have been creating as of late. Dissonance has never sounded so beautiful than now; hallowed images never so patronizing and true. Having been given permission to diverge of the more foundational complications of my existence, I confess that I have no words for the things that tug at me day and night. What's done is done, as they say. I am sorry, but I can only pick myself up so many more times. Life feels like crawling, and every step causes rugburn to slowly tear at my feeble skin and the cracks that were already there break. I will continue to tear at these scars until they heal from the outside-in, because I cannot access my blood and bones if my mind denies their growing. I'm so mature, aren't I? Questioning everything for myself. One day, hopefully your sons and daughters will be just like me--secretly dying, little by little. Where do all these noises in this too-quiet house come from? The dark scared me when I was a child--I now find myself frightened again. Sorry, mother, father, but I cannot bind up my mouth like a slave to my secrets. As I ride through the night empty cries emit from my sour mouth, and once again, I am gone with the wind, which has intruded on my time. Didn't you know? I am having an affair with the night.