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.