Why i drag the cold hard blade acros my skin is much of a mystery to you. Ill keep it to myself locked deep inside my blackend tortured soul. Youll never know how much it hurts but the pain lets me know that i’m still alive, that i’m still real at times when i feel dead and lost to the world.Gone and forgotten. Not like it matters how dimented and truely twisted i am. No you’ll never ask me i write the way i do. Or why i cry alone in the night no ones there and willing ly watching. No one has ever seen me cry. not since i was like 7 years old. It’s weird, like if i was ever sad or something I’d just bottle it all up inside and make evryone beleive i was this happy normal decent child. It was kind of fun pretending to be who i wasn’t. But that diddn’t last long though. Like when i was mabye about 10 yrs old I decided ‘fuck it i just can’t pretend to be who i’m not anymore’ And i guess iv’e been writing since around that time. It’s always been this morbid type of shit. My mom sent me to alll these different counslors and none of them really helped much, they just pissed me off even more. so now dayz i’m like getting more stressed each day. I actually have little spots were my hair is turning white. It kinda sucks but it looks kina kewl.
tales of mystery, horror and suspense