Maybe I'm just cruel.
I do this transformation when someone hurts me-- and it doesn't even have to be his or her fault, but it's the same, none the less-- I become a bed of roses. I smile and laugh and never crack a frown but, "I don't like you," and my head tells me "I've never liked you, and I won't again. I could never be close to you or show you anything but what you expect."
And like magic, I can neither speak a truth or a lie, just a middle ground to the two. I am alright because if I wasn't, it wouldn't concern you (anymore.)
I think I hurt people like this, but it seems like an evolutionary tactic to me.
I'm getting worse and worse at second chances.
The ironic part of this is, most of the time I'm hurt because someone doesn't want to hurt me. And it costs both. As soon as someone's evil-- in my mind--- they are nothing but.
Everything's a huge fog I can't see through, just feel, and drag my body like a log.
And I like to get lost, which is perfect and masochistic.
It's all my fault. But I hate you, and everyone like you, and that will never change. Cover yourself with as many wonderful things and as many great bits of personality as you can muster, but there will always be a lot full of bodies I've burried waiting for you in my heart. All of you are alike in one way, and that is all that matters: you made me feel dead with the same hope I had instilled in you that said you might make me feel alive. Such wonderful people who had to die. Such a shame.
And like magic, I can neither speak a truth or a lie, just a middle ground to the two. I am alright because if I wasn't, it wouldn't concern you (anymore.)
I think I hurt people like this, but it seems like an evolutionary tactic to me.
I'm getting worse and worse at second chances.
The ironic part of this is, most of the time I'm hurt because someone doesn't want to hurt me. And it costs both. As soon as someone's evil-- in my mind--- they are nothing but.
Everything's a huge fog I can't see through, just feel, and drag my body like a log.
And I like to get lost, which is perfect and masochistic.
It's all my fault. But I hate you, and everyone like you, and that will never change. Cover yourself with as many wonderful things and as many great bits of personality as you can muster, but there will always be a lot full of bodies I've burried waiting for you in my heart. All of you are alike in one way, and that is all that matters: you made me feel dead with the same hope I had instilled in you that said you might make me feel alive. Such wonderful people who had to die. Such a shame.