August 22, 2011
The sacrifice of my strands of dripping onyx seems so trivial now, so pathetic, when I see that I have not changed, that I am still flailing in the trenches of my self-imposed horrors, that I am still a bird with broken, mangled wings, trying to soar in winds that gouge out my heart.
And I run my fingers through these remaining ribbons of all I had to offer, and I realize how empty the space is now, where the rest of me should be, and it haunts me, floods my soul and haunts me to a maddening delirium.

Post a Comment

Be the first to comment on this article!

Site Feedback