Slower, deeper... war paint beads slowly at the edges, pooling.
Waiting.
Waiting to pull me under... and the water's thick and warm, too. Metalic or not, it feels nice. And it lulls me into a deep, deep sleep, and my nightmare dream is sick and twisted, and every reason I make the paint in the first place soft and warm. Soft, like the skin I rip in half my pillow, nice and warm.
(Only... the cold keeps my head up and my senses on alert. The cold keeps me awake, just like the pain...)
Warmth? I want freezing lungs and rosy cheeks heat. Crave it. Save it
up.
And then, my soldier lines fight armies for me. They fight off the enemy, usually. And when they don't, placement is more strategic (need pain, not sleep). When they don't, the numbers increase. My body's a battle-field.
Only, people are watching me now. Greedy eyes, taking me away. And I'm left with this pathetic excuse for a person who can't do anything right. Who can't:
-tell her she loves her
-answer the phone
-get her butt to school
-remember to: do homework/feed the fish/clean her room/do 170 sit-ups everysingleday/finish her homework/think properly
-say the right thing
-make everything okay
-be nice to her brother
-ask the right questions
She just keeps fumbling and breaking things. (Like skin.)
I hate her.
I hate her.
I hate her.
So I fight her. Soldiers; attack! Leave no skin un-ruptured! No blood unbled!
But, oh... the things she makes me think...
My armies are nothing compared to hers. My eyes close and I'm trapped.
But my gorgeous/beautiful/perfect girlfriend tells me I need more sleep...
(But more sleep means mroe cuts and more cuts means more pain and more pain means the dreams get worse. And the war just keeps going and going and going... and I'm tiredtiredtired. No! Wake up! Wake up! You'll be just...)
...so I close my eyes and grab my sword and yes, I hope for the best.
(Even if I don't deserve it.)
No comments:
Post a Comment