Is that where we go. Throughout this diseased existence, I found nothing but daggers aimed at my back, their delicate razors drawing near to my flesh, their poisonous tips etching images upon my forearms and I never knew it. Blindly I stumbled upon broken glass, rubbing my toes together for them to dig deeper, infect my soul with some reason for why I keep body bags within my subconscious, just in case I’ll need to hid those monsters, keep them from the foundation of my being.
They step too close, whisper sweetness upon their breath, as I believe every syllable that draws out from their depths. How foolish a girl I am, I close my eyes to what truths lay in front of me.
I choose to take the goodness in the hearts of betrayers to only be the witness to my own demise, watch as their daggers puncher my lungs, server the daffodils in my spinal cord, pluck their petals to brew their own, dead and decaying in my own flesh as they dance upon the corpse that is beneath their feet.
Do they know? How hard they have manufactured my heart, how the hatred is created. I think not, for they do not know what they do.
How I laugh at the gesture. Knifes only wound when there is force behind such an act, blood only flows when flesh is broken by a cause, how foolish those who think they were blinded when their fingers dug into my insides to pull out what was left.
I am not a graveyard for the dead to rest. My soil does not give life to the daffodils within your spinal cord.
if you still hate yourself we’ll cut ourselves and swallow chunks of broken glass i don’t care about finishing college i’ll buy the biggest tv that my credit card allows me we’ll watch the food network for the rest of our lives