[ alternative title : a letter to myself. ]

.

to the girl who's writing this,

i pity you deeply.

you are the outcome of blood stained

pages and forced acts of love.

you are a reminder of foulness,

the wretched wet floors crawling into your skin, a sign of your monstrosity.

it is a shame to live inside

a hollow chest, the embodiment of

weakness.

tell me, dear,

how does it feel like to live in a world

where people love anyone but you?

you are a living corpse,

sins scattered across your skin,

marks of your crystal clear crimes and the deep depths of despair.

to the girl writing this,

you, my dear, are a mistake, a crime.

buried beneath the fervid flashes

of betrayal;

ichor seeping through your knuckles and your soul scampered over

the soil, dripping it's foulness

onto the pureness of the earth.

glimpses of grief swirl in your orbs and the echoes of stilly souls

ring through your eardrums.

you, my dear, are a stygian sickness carried along with sins.

tell me, dear,

how does it feel to live inside a hollow chest where

poison posesses every nerve and

the ire mind wanders in

dark, mephitic places?

it is a shame to survive within

the sempiternal soul of weakness.

to the girl who's writing this,

one day you will rot

in a lea, deprived of affection and

filled with emptiness;

on a tender throne of blood

stained pages,

where you belong.

tell me, dear,

how does it feel to be scared

of the flesh eating souls singing songs,

only to realize that the monster

has been you all along?