[ 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?"