Hatred.

To want but cannot have. The feeling to kill whats in your way every time she silently gloats from across the room..

She must die.

The creator.

She is the creator. Of my pain, my hate, my miserable hours spent alone without comfert.

At the controls her claws are sunk into the flesh to the point of no return. I want the return, I tried to return, but it cannot be... The return is unwanted.

I am alone.

To return would change my world, the depression a myth, the countless cuts disappearing scars.

Back to reality.

Whisked from the dreams that lash more cuts like the crack of a whip, the stab of a needle, a needle, the needle.

My drug.

I must get my hits, as many as possible. The moment is beautiful, the aftermath is destroying inside. The mental scars, the jabs of pain, the constant truth returns as the drug fades.

The drug hurts me.

It breaks out with intoxicated insults after the countless bruises thrown my way. The drug isnt oblivious, he knows what he does. The way the rest of my day seems unimportant, because I lie in wait for the next day, the next hit, the next scar for later.

Its not the drug its the distributer.

She must die.

The way she stops and looks, makes sure I see, see my drug, and as I cant turn away, I can already see the blood brimming or my wrists.

The hatred I feel for the creator cannot match the feelings I have for the drug that seeks to destroy, to damage, to be the death of me.

Can I believe the drug is unintentional?

How can I know my drug isnt elsewhere.. stabbing others helpless with the needle. I do not know, nor can I ever find out.

I hate the creator, for she owns my hits of heroin. And no matter the bleeding pain for later the heroin makes,

It cannot compare to poison that wells in my mouth when I know the creator has won, for my heroin is loyal at bay with Her.

She must die.

 

 

Author's Note

Pardon the weird darkness that comes from this, It all mirrors a huge part of my life right now, and probably will continue to be...