November
Thursday 2 April 2009 photo 1/1
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There's nothing romantic about this.
You won't find any flowing poetry in the words we carve in our skin, only screaming curses in the form of silent blood, our personal declarations of hate and disgust.
We are the living, just as much as we are the dying; we're the weak and the strong, losing it all to emotion and glorifying our battles in thin red marks of shame and anger on our skin.
There isn't anything heroic or admirable in the way we hide our hearts behind these open wounds. All we do is dream out loud, all of our twisted wishes for perfection painted on pale canvasses.
You won't see sadness or grief in our tears, just the feelings we hide in blood.
There's nothing beautiful, romantic, or sane about this. It's what we know, and what we do best.
But we are not alone.
You won't find any flowing poetry in the words we carve in our skin, only screaming curses in the form of silent blood, our personal declarations of hate and disgust.
We are the living, just as much as we are the dying; we're the weak and the strong, losing it all to emotion and glorifying our battles in thin red marks of shame and anger on our skin.
There isn't anything heroic or admirable in the way we hide our hearts behind these open wounds. All we do is dream out loud, all of our twisted wishes for perfection painted on pale canvasses.
You won't see sadness or grief in our tears, just the feelings we hide in blood.
There's nothing beautiful, romantic, or sane about this. It's what we know, and what we do best.
But we are not alone.
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