She stood in the rain, the world around her melting from the heavens above. Arms lifting to the sky, each pelt of water washing away the sins that littered her soul. The tears that fell, never seen. Some said that she always felt at home in the rain.
Laying back on the bench, once vibrant dreams are now tattered with despair, there is nothing in the world lonelier than losing hope. Whispering, her confessions were given to the air around her, as her voice slowly fading, only the wind listened to her cries.
Sometimes after writing something dark and violent, I have to take a few minutes to look in the mirror’s mirror. Most of the time, I’m asking myself what the hell is wrong with me. Why do I have such unimaginable acts running through my head? Well, here’s the truth. I don’t even know. I will be asleep at three am in the morning and awaken to something that scares the crap out of me, but I need to share it with others. Was I always like this, or was I suppressing myself to feel normal?
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