TheTaintedHeart96

I hear America screaming, the varied cries I hear. Those of the young caregiver as she is weighted down, Those of the cutter as she marks her body forever, Those of the one who weeps as she is afraid to come out, Those of the masochist as she watches her lover fly, Those of the sadist as she watches her own friends stray away, Those of the one who lusts for death as she sees the bottom of the bottle, Those of the compassionate one who can’t seem to find her own, Those of the girl as her parents fail to listen, The delicious screaming of the enemies as the fall one by one, The day brings false joy – the night brings forth the truth

Who Am I? I am she who walks among a crowd alone. I am a living dead girl that walks around. I speak, I smile, and I even laugh. But people don’t notice the ghost living in my carcass. They can’t see the emptiness in my eyes, can’t smell the blood or the rotting flesh. I am a skeptical person who has been called many things from “worthless” to “worthwhile.” (Though I’m not sure which one to believe just yet.) I am the writer who knows no boundaries. (But my parents can’t find out.) I am the girl who finds serenity in her own blood. Twisted, yes, but the truth nonetheless. I am the hopeless