writteninblood

what you call faith, i call a sorry excuse.
cloak and daggers murder the truth.
the bitter taste - there's nothing else.
i'll bow for your 'king' when he shows himself.

This room is cold and that's no help
I think I'll just go cut myself
It seems sick but I can't wait
for my death. And those who hate
are just more who only care
about their looks and what they wear.
My father's gone and my friend is dead
And here, now, lying on my bed
All I can do is silently cry
sometimes, I wonder 'why?'
Why me? They don't shed a tear
It seems to me that it is clear
That no one cares here in this world
I'm just a small, insignificant girl.

What if the devil was a lie?
What if god did not exist?
❤

TRAPPED
The footsteps stopped outside the door. I waited to hear the lock turn but as always, it didn't. I sat up slowly and focused my eyes on the door. On the other side, there was no noise.

       I stood up slowly and walked silently to the chest of drawers in the corner of the room. Out of habit I ducked when I went past the window, forgetting I had drew the thick black curtains days ago to keep out outside life (if it even existed at all any more). I opened the drawer ensuring to not make a sound. The key was still there, just like always, but I was sure the outsider could still get in. They hadn't came in yet (while I was awake anyway). I was sure they were toying with my mind, trying to make me insane. They could've easily get into my room just as easily as they had held me there for weeks. Or maybe months. I wouldn't know. I couldn't know - I had no clock. I had nothing electrical any more. They were watching me through them so I knew I had to destroy them. I stood on them and then braved the window and threw them out. In the three seconds I was there, I didn't see a person walk past and I didn't see a car. That proves it, doesn't it? I'm not crazy. I'm just clever. Actually, maybe I am slightly insane. A sane person would have never figured this out. A sane person would venture outside. A sane person would have been taken.
      Sighing, I opened the next drawer down and stared at the pencil sharpener with just one blade in it. The other one I had taken out long before. I looked at the long line of scars on my arm. I sighed again, knowing  that I was about to make another.
      Every time I had been to sleep, no matter for how long, I made a small cut in my arm. Just enough to make a scar. That way, I knew just how many times they could have gotten in without me knowing. How many times they could have messed with my head.
      Up until then, the total was 47.

RIVERSIDE, MOTHERF'UCKER.