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Life is not unkind. I would rather say it’s uncaring. Life has no consideration for you, no awareness of its sharp edges and rough skin. It is simple. Pragmatic. Adheres to a logic that one cannot possibly hope to comprehend.

I do not feel anything when I return home to lick my wounds. The dread of return is something constant, something as familiar to me as the consistent droning of my television, or the ache in my scalp after a long day with my hair pinned.

Dread tears me apart slowly, methodically. I don’t understand the weight of the mistakes I make until I am alone, biting my nails and rocking back and forth upon my cold floor, begging a god I’m not even sure I believe in for just one more chance.

Yet, life goes on. Life has no regard for my pain. Neither do I.

I can’t remember a time when the fuzz didn’t eat away at the edges of my vision. A time when I wasn’t viewing everything through dust-covered lenses. I daydream. Once, it was an escape from this, but now? It is the only thing that interrupts the buzzing agony drilling in my mind. Regrets, hopes, things that scream and beg in my mind to be acknowledged. They are drowned out by the infinite repetition of infomercials I’ve memorized.

A salve that once healed me simply covers the festering rot of what can no longer be fixed.

There is another, the seductress, the devil on my shoulder. She slips me dangerous thoughts.

Walk away from it

Abandon this

Abandon everyone

They’d never find you

They’d never look for you

Never miss you

Lose your every inhibition





Die fulfilled

I let her speak, if only to dream.

Yet I confuse her more and more for something she is not. As my vision worsens she only appears more clear.


Sleep drives broken glass into my waning mind.

I wake up holding conversations that never happened, committing things to memory that are not real, scrambling out of bed because I’m late for something I haven’t attended in years. Convinced I know people who have not been born.

there is no forgiveness. No fault. No blame. You know what you are.

Solace is found in a deserted corner of my mind.

She was there once. So very unlike life.


She fit into every crevice, every cut, every wound. Such a comforting pressure.


I can’t feel it anymore. Not from her. Not from anything.

Everyone who takes her place rips me open. Widens the gashes, deepens the wounds, put their filthy mouths against me to desperately suck at the blood that springs forth.

It burns.

But I let them.

And through the stygian gloom the face in the mirror scowls at you again.

Make no mistake, I despise them. I can feel my chest tighten every second I spend with them, I can feel my heart pounding and my hands digging crescents into my thighs with my grip.

But the seductress, she whispers to me,

“This is your penance. Your sacrament. With this, you will be wiped clean.”

And I pretend she cannot lie.

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