Sacrifice.
You know, death isn't all that bad. I spent half of my life fearing it and half of my life chasing after it. But now, laying on this bed and standing between both worlds, I've come to terms with the consequence of my sacrifice. It is a beautifully tragic thing; to die for the man you love. The seconds tick by as my pulse slows. I hear my lover's wails from my side, holding tightly to my hand as though that could keep me from slipping away. So much to say, no way to say it. All I can manage to do is squeeze back faintly and hope he hears my final "I love you" with this desperate act. It takes away the last of my energy. A final deep breath, a final tired sigh, my hand hangs limp in his own. I am gone. But I give a silent promise as I quietly slip away like a thief in the night. I will find you, again.
Battle head
We, alone, sat in the back of the bus. It was just us. We didn't understand what had happened and we couldn't tell what would. All we knew was what was happening and that was enough. I was sitting on the left with him right beside me. We stared through the bus window at the flashing sights. We had never been outside. It was like our brains were being tortured and there was an immediate battle between the imaginary and the real. Reality was both overwhelming and subpar, simply unexplainable. He was my only sure reality. He squeezed my hand and it felt like the realest thing ever. Together we feared.
the pretty kind of people
People are not pretty,
They are frighteningly maddening.
They feel with the intensity of the sun.
Even at the surface,
Riddled with thin paper cuts-
That look shallow from afar,
But go deeper than you will ever imagine.
Hear them scream in the middle of the night
Silent but so loud in their pain.
The things we once romanticized,
those dark eyes and shy smiles
were once tortured cries on painful trials.
Can you see who they once were?
The parts of themselves they had to kill,
To allow the other parts to survive.
Go past the makeup, the shield,
the mask made from the blood we shed.
Go past it and you will see,
People are not pretty,
They are intensely real.
