wilona

I feel like shite.
Absolute shite.

I was going to blog about my past week or so.
But to be quite honest, I can't be fucking bothered.
None of it seems to fucking matter.



Warning: Incessant ramblings of a depressive maniac.

'Handle With Care' read the label across her chest.
Ripped to shreds, and burnt to the ground.
Defenseless, exposed and alone.

Nothing left but desire.
Desire to run, desire to hide, desire to die.
Doesn't matter when, doesn't matter how.
The end is inevitable.

When the world wrongs you, wrong the world.
She lies in ruin, iniquity calls.
Smudges and scars, her confidants, her friends.
Chemical cures for broken whores.
Fragility never looked so fucking good.

And when it all comes to an end.
When death comes knocking at your door.
She'll be smiling.
Waiting.
For castigation to even the score.