jerianna

I've always wondered if I am a sadist Or a masochist. Now I've come to the conclusion That I must be a sadist. I can tell what I'm saying is hurting you, Lots of little slices like broken glass in your skin, As I see you wince from the words that slur from my breath. Good. I keep my tongue sharpened and packed with venom, Ready to inject anyone who does me wrong. I want the toxic words to work their evil magic, Slow but surely consuming you, eating you alive. So why is it that I keep letting you poison me?

You are the blood that runs through my veins. You are the wind across my neck. Your intoxicating scent is thick, It carves itself into the stone of my memory. You are my world.. I love you.

A second goes by, You ask yourself why You're even trying again. Minutes go past, You couldn't mask The feeling you had inside. An hour passes, Thick as molasses, Find yourself going nowhere. Days fly past, Weeks surpassed, Ask yourself why you do this. Weeks into months, Months into years. This feeling you have Must bring you to tears.

I can feel it. My mind is slowly slipping away Through my left ear. Maybe it won't be so bad being psycho. I can walk on walls and detach my nose from my face. I can pull a rainbow out of the sky and put it in my pocket. I can drop a stone and it'll fall up. I can have conversations with mangoes and bison. I can make up my own colors. I can kick a ball and it will go nowhere. And when people ask, I'll just tell them: "I'm not a genius, I'm just psycho."

Wind swept across her delicate cheeks, Pulling her frizzy blonde hair over her pale face. You could see her breath in the frosty, crisp air. She walked down her driveway, rocks rolled under her converse shoes. The girl pushed her glasses farther up the freckled bridge of her nose And pulled at the sleeves of her too-small purple parka. Her thoughts resumed to the day before her. Probably more jokes, mockery, ranting. If you looked at this girl, you wouldn't be able to guess what she goes through On a daily basis. She keeps it bottled inside, Searching for a release. She still hasn't found it. If you looked at her, you'd never gue

She looked at him But he looked away. Just turned his head, Let his thoughts sway. "Do I love her? Or do I not? Can someone tell me? I think I forgot." The girl dropped the roses on the ground. "Fine. I'm sick of it. Sick of waiting. Sick of life. Sick of you." Does he care? Is this fair? She took a bus home, And her parents weren't there. Now she could relieve herself Of this despair. In the bathroom, The door was locked. Now no one could save her, But herself. She sat with a knife, Hands shaky. "I am doing this. I am doing it." When knife touches skin, Where does the pain end, And where does it begin? Now it's