In so many words...

You don't get it. The silence hurts, the clear crisp silence where footsteps are felt, And the pin drops are heard. The silence hurts. Because its where my mind wanders deep in search of the little drawer kept locked up, the drawer of nightmares, the drawer of hate. The silence hurts, the sound of silence is deafening, so turn the chit chat, turn the birds, turn the laughter on. Turn the sound of music up. Drown out the nightmare, drown out the pain, drown out the hate. Please mute the sound of silence.

It's all I see. The bad, the bold, the beautiful. Where is the ugly? I walk in vain search for the face that makes me shy away in disgust, a smile that makes my eyes burn a searing pain and cry salty water. I walk or run whichever it was. The disgust, the paranoia, the ugly are no where to be found, I cannot see it. The others walk as in peace of mind, as if they have already come to close realization of where they might be found! I cannot find it! I panic. Will no one show me? And I ask and I beg and I plead to be heard, for my questions to be answered! But they only glance down and walk away shyly. I fall to my knees and let the gavel sink into my skin. If I cannot find the ugly, then the ugly is me. The disgust, the paranoia is me? The pathetic? Yes, the pathetic is me.... The pathetic had always been me.

I don't remember. I don't remember the pain, I don't remember the knife, I don't remember the depth, I don't remember the scarlet liquid viscosity that dripped from the thin line of mutation. I don't remember. But it is there, to remind me, the thin line that marks my arm, it is there to MAKE remember how I only follow and never lead, how I am a joke in this world of freaks. How I never, not once not ever felt as disgusting as I had at that moment. But it was not only one moment, it was millions of moments, and millions more to come. Do I add to my little gallery of art? Do I tie another bow to remind me of the forgotten, or do I sit and shed and draw with pen on the sides of my thighs. Do I close my eyes and imagine I am not a sheep. Do I close my eyes and imagine that blade slowly running through the side of my leg....

I guess it's easy to say my eyes are never dry. Salty liquid explodes from the tiny sockets of my eyes invading the creases of my skin. It's the comfortable sadness of my tiny imaginary world. If only it were truly a figment of my imagination, but no. Reality, it hits like the very first snowfall. Calm and steady at first, beautiful even, so I dare say. Suddenly the wind blows harder, the flakes move faster, my vision is gone. Some stray easily away from the storm, while others get caught wandering in infinite circles of pure misery until one I'd able to pull them out. But the others have saved themselves, and it is only those courageous who will go back and guide the hopeless back to hope.

Everything hurts they said. And the scars itch. They itch insanely. Intensely. We can close our eyes and try and imagine that they don't hurt or that we hate the pain. But we feel the pain, we feel the hurt, we feel the scars. And we try to deny its wonderful feeling. The beautiful way the ooze of bright scarlet seems to explode out if the thin line. That line that once took you so much courage to make, and now it comes easily. But you don't feel courageous, you don't feel wonderful. Your pathetic worries build up higher and higher creating stacks of fear in your heart.
......
Your eyes try their best to avoid the scars u made. They swerve away when your naked arms come to sight, not that u would ever dare make the mistake of leaving them bare. And you deny the fact that Swerving eyes don't make wounds disappear...

And so you played me, or so I let you. And in your mind you probably see me as an ally of Satan and his minions. When in reality it is you, was you, and always will be you who inflicts me with this disease without a cure. Without a hope, without a moment of trust. And so I died at the hands of your devilish acts. I died at the hands of your disease. I died... because you killed me.