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This is written in a Henry Rollins manner. I don't know if anyone here has read any of his books, but he's the lead man of the Rollins Band and was also a member of Black Flag. He's awesome and I recommend reading his book called Solipsist.
Tell me if something sounds waaaaaaay off (half of it will, but bring it up anyway). The grammar and punctuation (especially punctuation) sucks. It’s not meant to be perfect nor follow the set rules of “perfect sentences”/”perfect paragraphs”. Sorry if that is annoying for people too.
And as usual, language and such is in the piece. No good comes from a bad mouth…*haha…Fugazi joke*
Anywho, here's my mini rant. By the way, I think people who review are sexy.
Please don't touch me ever again. I don't want to feel your fingers burn into my skin. You have lost all sense of how you feel. You've lost all sense of non-violent reaction.
When your voice raises, my gaze lowers, because I know I can't look you in the eye anymore. That's because you aren't who you used to be.
Now I feel as if your eyes tear at me, struggling to grasp onto something as you begin to break apart. You made me hurt. You still make me hurt. I don't think I can touch you again. I don't think I want to. And I don't want you to touch me, because of the difference that has rooted in you...the difference in how you used to make me feel and how you make me feel now. That difference hurt. That hurt more than anything, and that “that” is you. You hurt me more than my parent’s missing my softball games…more than Robbie and Stephen dying and leaving me here…that’s how bad it is. You’re still here, and I have to see your face every fucking day. Because of that, I pray for a bullet to the head.
Every wall of self defense I have built has been ravaged, every scar slit open, every pain rekindled, and now I’m rambling on. I still love you. I don’t know why. Maybe it’s because the way you used to make me feel. Maybe that’s it. Maybe it’s the way you look at me now as if you were actually sorry…as if you could even slightly fathom the idea of me hurting as bad as I do.
I always have this dream. It haunts me. I want to tell you it, because you may actually understand this time.
The dream starts. My heart gets stuck in my throat when I see you. When you reach out your hand, I feel like vomiting. You reach for me still, after every pain you’ve put me through. You reach for my hand, embers glowing underneath your fingernails and lava running through your charred veins.
I look at you, your doll-like persuasive eyes, that I wish would rot into the back of your head, staring back intently. Then I looked at your extended hand, reduced to blackened char. I could see it spreading slowly up you arm, your blood boiling up through the burnt pores and torn open cracks of your skin.
That’s when I cried. That’s when I woke up.
I’m sorry about how things have turned out, but it’s all your fault. You should take responsibility, like you never do.
So, now all I have to say about this recent situation is fuck you for trying to burn me again.
Dedicated to the love of my non-existent life.