opiatedmorphia's Journal

honey, your reputation is shit in this town
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"It seems to me as though you enjoy this sickness," she says, leaning back in the brown leather chair and crossing her legs to reveal just another character flaw; mismatched socks. Which bothers me.

"Perhaps," I answer nonchalantly, delicately peeling back the outer layer of my fingernail to reveal the raw flesh underneath.

I like how death tastes. I like it baked, or broiled, or steamed. Sometimes I like it stuffed with aspirin. Or laced with heroin. Death is an acquired taste, the poignant scent of fear combined with a sprinkling of peaceful insanity. Some days I like it sharp, steel teeth combing into the soft flesh of skin to leave a friendly afterglow. And other days I like it neat, arranged in colors and shapes near the phone with 911 on speed dial. I never eat all of my death, I like to save a bit for later. Later never comes though, for you see, I cannot hold my breath forever. This body of mine, it breathes the afterglow of fine lines and points of no return.
I've got a love affair with madness, or is it that madness has a love affair.

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I have a few secrets.