There they are. Spidery little things, creeping and twitching. They're dragging themselves across the page, etching a path that stretches between my pen and my paper. A dusty back road where old thoughts and forgotten, abandoned things get raked up into the air and catch in my eyes, burning behind closed eyelids every time I walk down that lonely path. I open my eyes and look at them, those skittering, pathetic creatures that I scratched onto the paper, and I hate them.
I made them, and I hate them.
I close my eyes and look at that road, that hollow place of wind and dust that I called into being from the dark behind my eyes, and I hate it. I made it, and I hate it. I walk to the mirror and look at him, that sad, stupid little boy, and I know him. I made him. Chose every word. Did every deed. Had every thought.
I made them, and I hate them.
I close my eyes and look at that road, that hollow place of wind and dust that I called into being from the dark behind my eyes, and I hate it. I made it, and I hate it. I walk to the mirror and look at him, that sad, stupid little boy, and I know him. I made him. Chose every word. Did every deed. Had every thought.
I made him. And I hate him.
إرسال تعليق