Freak

My rather abstract view on a girl known as a freak.

The angles of existence are the only things we ever choose to see.

 

She is 50% useless and 40% wrong.

There's nothing about her that inspires a smile, creates a feeling of warmth until the mind is so full of love that it bursts at the seams. But she'll cut away at the flesh either side of her mouth and rip you a smile instead.

 

She is 40% tragic and 40% gone.

There's something about her that's laughable, funny to the point that the chuckles stiffen the lungs and cramp the face. But she'll remove her ribs one by one and lend you her lungs instead.

 

She is 40% psychotic and 30% confused.

There's an aura around her that threatens, warns against coming too close and seeing the the method behind the madness she looks to represent. But she'll peel off her skin and show you her madness instead.

 

She is 30% sick and 30% accused.

There is no way to escape her disease, the one that splits the seams of reality and lets all the toxic sludge of mindless hypocrisy escape the wounds. But she'll clean you off and stuff all that acid down her own throat instead.

 

She is 30% freak and 20% dead.

There's a darkness that grates on her heart, eats away at it until it's nothing more than a bleeding mess of liquid muscle. And she'll stamp it in to the ground until there's nothing left for you to destroy.

 

The angles of existence are the only things we choose to see. But they aren't the only things there are.