My mood's getting very shaky, with my birthday coming up and all. My happiness is sentenced from the instant I recognize it as such, but never will it be complete without my acceptance. I expect nothing else of life. I expect nothing else.
I miss weak men to lead into oblivion. I miss myself more than anything. I eat and sleep and wait and do what you bid me, and pull myself through. And wait. No one left to read these words, I guess. I'm not lonely. I have a lover I can feel through. Maybe even with. But still, I miss the confidence in weak men.
It feels as if liberation is just one histerical laughter away, but I can't reach it. I can't let go. Whatever happened here, in this broken house, with the burnt out fire, and the cobwebs on the corpses?
Whatever happened in my hearth and soul?
The wind's bite can sting me in and out of madness.
Twisted (for that I am).
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