Disclaimer: I write, but I don't own anything that is worth everything.
paramnesia
n : (psychiatry) a disorder of memory in which dreams or fantasies are confused with reality
n : A distortion of memory in which fantasy and objective experience are confused
The window was damp. His forehead kissed with the cold glass. Dripping. Dripping. Always dripping. Felt nice. But always ended with desolate sweet atrophy. His breath smashed the glass. There grew a fog. He made something grow. Instead of staying alive like it was supposed to, it faded away. Back to his mouth in the form of bitter irony. His blood froze just as it was supposed to.
Vodka tasted nice. Cigarettes made him calm. Heroin blew him away. But love and empathy made him pure.
He was pure. Pure pure pure pure pure pure little boy.
Dressed in white with angel wings and forged skin; he would jump of the cliff and forget his wings, hoping that they wouldn't save him. But in the end, he would always live.
They scorned him, they loved him. When all reached bottomless envy, he would be the martyr for them. Just as it should be.
His fake ebony hair would be splattered over the floor, sacrifice.
The body mangled and torn like the little puppet without loving seams; blood would rise and slowly shiver over white tiled skin. When life raped him, he still was pure, crushed in suicide on the pavement, he would be.
Alive. Alive like the rose screaming from the vase. He held his breath. The fogged spot of life died away. His mouth breath's cemetery. And he would kill and bring back, he would sacrifice and he would love, he would massacre the forgotten saints and he would be Innocence in their eyes.
Die for me.
Die for me.
Die for me.
The noose would be tight. The pain would hurt. The lungs would implode. But suicide was always refreshing.
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" BOY-WHO-LIVED ANOTHER VICTIM OF TEENAGE ANGST"
crying over tea-ceremonies. In memoriam to you, he lit the candle but it swallowed the flame.
Pale fingers tracing over frozen glass. He made something grow.
He made something new and fresh.
The wind blew. And in a few seconds, the fogged spot of wetness was gone. Back to where it belonged. He would try again, and maybe this time he would grow something that would not die. Because he would die for it and be reborn every single time.
After all, he was the saint who had been burnt at the cross instead of glowing eyes, he had shallow green.
Fixing life and killing himself was what he was to do.