MissAlphaWolf

I'd write truth, but even the word is a waste of time when it's from me-- but for all the wrong reasons, with no rhyme at all. Fuck the fact that I was raised on lies, in houses coated with gold that turned out to be lead that turned out to be poison that turned out to be deadly. Fuck the fact that I was raised in a lie, where nothing mattered past the facade-- but at least it was a really good facade. Fuck the fact that I'm not even a good fucking liar. All that matters is that the truth never mattered so much as circumstantial evidence. All that matters is that a lie is a lie, even when it's the truth. All that matters is that no one

v. we were [v] and we were lonely, and the world was too big for us to know how to navigate, so we didn't even bother to try-- we just floated, drifted like we were lost, because we were, we were, but we didn't have the guts to admit it, just yet. because we were only [v], and we didn't even know we were afraid, yet. x. we were [x] and we were shy, with baby stars in our eyes that were fading, fading fast, because we were too old to say we didn't know how to lie, anymore, but we were still lying about the cookies that went missing, about the dirt we tracked in, about the juice we spilled-- those lies were still white, and so were we. bec

Unconventionally static, I'll love you forever in all the wrong places. In photographs, but those are quickly becoming outdated, like the polaroids I took and left out too long on my bedroom desk. Who would've thought artificial light could be so deadly? -- the colour is gone, much like my life without sleep and medication. -- you thought I was going to say my life without you, didn't you? -- I'll let you in on a secret: my world hasn't changed a bit since you walked away. In memories, but I don't trust those much, anymore. I can see the seams in the photoshop, and the shitty CGI has me thinking that my editing skills need a little work.

Dear seven-- I don't even know where to start this. I don't even know where we started. Regurgitating old memories not only makes me look like a total bitch, it makes this entire letter irrelevant and much too lengthy; I should have more to say to you, but I don't, and I should feel more guilty about that, but I don't really feel guilty, either. Or, rather, I feel guilty about that... I just don't feel guilty enough. I'll start here: Sometimes, I miss you. Sometimes, a thought comes up, and I'm laughing, until I remember why I laughed in the first place. Sometimes, I do something, and I'm happy, until I remember why I was happy in the f

"Hello?" "Hey, sweetheart." "What-- who is this? Do you realize what time it is?" "Calm down, sweetheart. It's just me." "D... Danny? What the hell are you doing? It's 3:00 am! How did you even get my new apartment number?" "Oh, come on, sweetheart. A friend. Besides, I even had enough courtesy to wait to call you." "Until 3:00 am." "I waited until you got home." "More like until you got home." "Once upon a time, it was you, too, babe." "Are you high?" "No. Not anymore. Aren't you proud?" "Fuck off." "Hey, come on, calm down. Look, I know I haven't called and all..." "It's been six months." "Missed me?" "You have five seconds

There's fire in my veins. It's eating me alive from the inside out, and it's the most beautiful, torturous feeling I've ever felt, and it makes me want to crawl out of my skin and grow and recreate myself and destroy myself, but all I can do is feel... well, all I can do is feel, for the first time in a long time. Once upon a time, I was stuck in a forest-- a beautiful nothing filled with beautiful, macabre thoughts of beautiful, beautiful death. Caught in the center of a world where no one was there but everything was heated and everything had a soul and everything wanted my soul... however rusted and tarnished it may be. I was frozen in

Oh, Pretty girls with hair all curled fall to the ground when he walks in the crowded room. With quiv'ring lips and hopeful eyes, they say: "Oh, save us, love, oh, save us from ourselves." And monotone with eyes long dead, he says, "Pretty girls with hair in curls bleed pearls and all the diamonds on this fair and lovely earth; it pains me, dears, to see you here, hurting." They smiled, lovely, at him, then, until, "So then," he said, lips all but cheered, "We have a choice to make. Give me your hearts, and I shall fail, but you will never hurt again." And so they gave him everything, without a pause: And he, the trickster, ran

-- because i dont Because sugar doesn't last, not when it's melting in the sun. (or on my tongue, or on your tongue, or between our tongues) -- but I hear the fake shit they use in everything nowadays can give you cancer, so am I worth the risk? And because swapping gum wasn't meant for us. (or for any of the kids kissing beneath the stairways, or behind textbooks, or under stars) -- but you're the only one who ever knew how much I love Big Red and coke, so can I keep you, anyway? Because your tattoos and piercings only caught my eye for a second. (or a million seconds, or a billion seconds, or a trillion seconds) -- but it doesn't m

i. These are the days you trick yourself into loving. The days when you're too lonely to bear so-- dammit!-- someone else just might bear it for you. (you're adorable, honey; as cute as tehy come. if we were five, I would want you as a partner on a field trip so I could hold your hand.) But the bitter truth is, I'm not five, you're not in love, and your obsession will eat me alive. (I will bury you alive.) ii. These are the moments where we lie to ourselves. I tell myself ilikeyou, iwantyou, iloveyou, ineedyou-- but it's not your face I picture. (you're just like the piercing everyone wanted me to get; the one everyone thought was p

There are some things etched into me; tapped deeper than my fingertips, deeper than my eyes, deeper than my bones, deeper than my heart. Down to my fingerprints. Down to my mind. Down to my marrow. Down to my soul. I can't fucking get rid of it; I can't fucking get rid of you. If you think this is for you: then it never was, we never were, you can't be on my soul, you were never even on my lips. I'd list all the places and ways to escape you, but I can't bring myself to recognize the fact that, no, jail won't work. My fingerprints spell out your name, and everything I touch screams everything you've ever said to me in brail that