10/31/2023
Sometimes, it feels better
To be wrong than alright.
What can be more freeing than
To give in to the fight?
Just never fully surrender
To the thrall of the night.
Always remember the sign of the times:
A brand new blemish.
A scar now burnished.
Demons temporarily banished
Through the ash-grey portals
That once again litter the canvas of my skin,
So paper thin and still beckoning for more.
You fucking whore.
You let them in, full-knowing
That they always win.
But that's ever been the point of this,
Has it?
Now, you brandish a weapon,
An excalibur for a bleeding heart,
A useless relic from a forgotten cause,
A wasted form of misplaced art:
Forever burnt, in crude, self-abused circles:
The shape of a sword on your arm.
Pure carnage.
Ultimate bliss.
Gods, it feels good to exist like this.
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