<p>They don't get it.</p><p>They don't see me.</p><p>It's hard to make them believe.</p><p>I have a record of memories</p><p>on repeat I my head.</p><p>My demons keep the track spinning,</p><p>so they can see me dead.</p><p>It's hard to make them believe,</p><p>that I really can't eat.</p><p>That in my stomach is an empty pit,</p><p>slowly being filled by the black</p><p>tar called emotions, until I throw it up in the kitchen sink,</p><p>and try to wash it away. </p><p>But it never goes away.</p><p>It's hard to make people think about you for a change.</p><p>When you leave the room, and hope somebody notices,</p><p>and they don't</p><p>the crushing feeling</p><p>and heavy anchor of thoughts weighing you down </p><p>into the ocean of tears</p><p>seems to make your fingers slip from the dock of humanity</p><p>until your drowning</p><p>but your lips are chapped</p><p>and your throat is dry.</p><p>Like sandpaper rubbing on your skin until your nothing</p><p>but bones and a heart</p><p>that is slowly being killed.</p>

I hate it when somebody says,

"Forget about them,"

Because it's not that simple.

You can't just snap your fingers and

expect all the memories and

moments to disappear.

It's highly impossible to forget,

but I will try and try,

because that's the best

shitty advice

society can

give

me.

We try to perfect ourselves for each other,

and we worry about who has the best hair

while we should be thinking about what makes us

us

and why we

matter

and not how we

can't be better

but how we

already are

perfect in our

own eyes

At times, I wonder.

What if I would've chosen differently? But then I remember why I didn't. I remember all the stupid, self-centered, egotistical assholes out there, and I don't wonder why any more. My basement is my safe place. It has my kitchen, my dining table and chairs, my art supplies and my crafting things that are littered about. For other's, it's not so safe. I will burn them with pans from my oven, cut their wrists for them. I take the liberty in rinsing their un-pure souls&nbsp;by boiled water being poured over them. The screams I hear are like a high pitched symphony, getting higher with every octave before is cracks, and is crushed under the pain. I love it. The best part is, when we sit down for dinner. Well, I sit, their on the table, on a plate, saturated in their own juices and bursting with the metallic taste I crave in every bite. The remains are used to boil the next person I purify, and the process happens again and again&nbsp;every time, over and over until I feel like doing something else. Human flesh is desirable, no doubt, but their screams are even sweeter, and the flesh even warmer when I take a subtle bite right out of the shoulder.

The symphony and flesh of this woman, Avalon Cruise, is most satisfactory. With every scream her shrill voice emits, the sweeter and juicier her flesh becomes. With every bite I take, on her thighs, neck and shoulder, the louder she screams, until it goes silent. My fun is over, but not my feast.

The door opens for a moment, and I know he's home.

I go to welcome him home.

But he has a bottle in his hand.

It's empty and made of glass.

Not again.

A smirk curves on his perfect lips.

Fear strikes my heart like a bullet.

"Welcome home."

He grunts, and gives me a sloppy kiss.

I don't want this.

His hands rub my thighs.

I don't love him.

He unbuttons my shirt.

I won't have it.

I push his hands away.

My face is numb.

The bottles half shattered.

Glass prickles my cheek.

I don't give any reaction.

He goes in again.

And I let him.

Last time I tell my self.

That's what I said yesterday.