Normally I sit with my pen to paper until something haunting yet elegant spills from my mind, but all I can bring myself to say right now is that it hurts.
What was this? This inferno of feelings, the intrusive thoughts that never left me alone. My fascination with knives never ran quite so deep before. I think of them constantly now. I frighten myself with how much I daydream about knives. They came in so many shapes and sizes, some duller than others but so long as the end is sharp enough to rip the skin from bone I will still adore it. If it can shed enough blood to leave me with shaking legs and disorient me, I will cherish it by plunging it straight into my heart.
The feeling is hard to explain. It is standing in a graveyard with fireworks in the background. It is a massacre that brings a smile to your face, even though you know it is wrong to be so excited by death.
My thoughts are a disarray of disgusting images, and I despise myself for it. Why am I so hopelessly in love with death? How depressed am I that rational thought has left me? I am an animal of only instinct, stimulated only by blood and disaster. There is not even a whisper of rationality to be found here, only an infatuation for all the misfortune around me.
I submit defeat to this monster. I walk a dark path full of vivid death, and I deserve to be disowned by all who know me. Let me be lazy and wither away in this misery that my heart has made its home in.