Every beat of my heart ;

22:31, Poison Ivy's chamomile

Sunday, 22 July 2012

Now I meet everything you say with a question. But some questions should never be asked and these questions especially are like cancer. You kill them over and over again and still you never win. Their answers are venomous.

The beating heart is a dying heart. Lulled by the same words singing songs in prisoners' heads making tragedies of fairytales. So maybe I am special. I am also ordinary. Sometimes, on Tuesdays or when they're bored, spiders play with their food a little longer than usual. (I have watched them on the ceiling from my bed. Every day. Every hour. For weeks.) I will always be prey. The sad thing is, even caught fish will struggle in a broken net. I lie there and wait to die. And maybe I will have lived, but it will never matter at the end.