Loathing
I feel paralyzed by my misanthropy right now.
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I feel paralyzed by my misanthropy right now.
I cannot even coax beauty from it anymore.
Even my protestations to its repetition feel dry and sour. Like dust in my mouth.
I finally understand what makes you attractive. It is, in many ways, exactly what makes me not.
I want mercury to pump through my veins, so that my eyes might burn bloodshot and silver. So that I might be poisoned and a monster, but at least as cold and perfect and unstoppable as the light of stars. A precious flicker of light from something that once was; the romantic twinkle of a beauty long since passed. Until I spit crimson and moonlight, and protest no more.
I want to be loved and desirable, but instead I have this.
This.
Useless.
Mortal.
Coil.
I'm not sure why I write here anymore. It's not like anyone reads it.
Why does every holiday season have to hurt so much?
I'm tired of explaining things.