No Sanctuary For The Damned
est. December 6th, 2008
Twenty Three Years Old
“The paralyzing fear of being lost is fed solely by the irrational
fear that we will never be found.” - Craig D. Lounsbrough
est. December 6th, 2008
Twenty Three Years Old
“The paralyzing fear of being lost is fed solely by the irrational
fear that we will never be found.” - Craig D. Lounsbrough
Feels like a thousand fucking years since the last long plunge of a needle lit my veins up with the thrill of certain death. I've healed just the same mentally as physically and yet every glance in the mirror reveals an apparition I can't quite believe is me. When did the pigtails and buckteeth disappear? When did Sunday dresses and pretty golden crosses turn into leather and corsets? When did my innocence turn into dripping deviance?
...Probably on the day I lost my virginity to the dragon.
It's always easiest to hold onto the thrill while wallowing in the aftermath. Sometimes, with the taste of the pill still on my tongue, I imagine it's more than pain relief swarming my system. Infecting the deepest, darkest parts of me with sweet euphoric bliss. but no matter how much I crave to chase an impossible high there was always a hand there to stop me. Withered with age but no more judgemental than the eyes that follow me across the snow blistered streets. Mocking the circumstances that brought hell into the life of a (former) goodChristian girl.
'Chloe' he'd say, because I never would give him a name to call me by. Whoever lived in this body of mine before had no rights to it now. The old me lost that battle the moment they left home for good. 'I can only help you exist, I can't help you live.' funny how the cravings would disappear under the weight of crushing guilt. So heavy it drags me down beneath the waves of self-fucking-pity, holding my body down long enough for my lungs to start aching and the harsh reality to sink right back in. I'm a fucking mess, and I have no right to claim the victim.
This is it now, all I've wrought in the years dependent on every selfish whim.
But today is a different story altogether. Today is grief for all the wrong reasons. More ways to loathe myself for an existence I don't quite believe in. Who else could stare at an open casket and wonder how they'll stop themselves from indulging in their vices; I'm a special kind of devil for it. Can't say it's too surprising. Mark had a way with pretty words, a way that kept me on the up and up for the past four goddamned years. A savior in the shell of a man twice as damned. Cold and dead now, because thats how the world works when you live in filth.
The best men die in the worst ways. His had been the pain of disease. Destroying him from the inside out with every passing days. A long year of agonizing medications and a dozen or so experimental treatments that took the away the last of his youth.
Nothing matters much anymore, its all gone now and I am alone in an empty church with a casket holding the most important person in my life. P a t h e t i c. The last speck of whimsical kindness snuffed in an instant. Pity, he hadn't gotten to meet the real person behind my skin. The girl who is not Chloe, but whom is not the child that grew up under gods rules.
Is it selfish that the tears aren't for him? Nor the family that didn't show up because half of them are ten kinds of addicted to the needle, just the same as most of the people in this city.
The tears are for me, the selfish fucking brat who can't stop the itch on her own. The viewing doesn't end fast enough to sate the need curling in my gut. I've got a bone to pick with a pretty lady, and there's nothing left to stop anymore.
A back alley handy and pity pay to bring me two steps closer to finding my shallow grave and lying down in it.
Least I'll have enough money for a sandwich and a h a n d f u l o f O x y.
Relapse has never tasted so sweet.
...Probably on the day I lost my virginity to the dragon.
It's always easiest to hold onto the thrill while wallowing in the aftermath. Sometimes, with the taste of the pill still on my tongue, I imagine it's more than pain relief swarming my system. Infecting the deepest, darkest parts of me with sweet euphoric bliss. but no matter how much I crave to chase an impossible high there was always a hand there to stop me. Withered with age but no more judgemental than the eyes that follow me across the snow blistered streets. Mocking the circumstances that brought hell into the life of a (former) good
'Chloe' he'd say, because I never would give him a name to call me by. Whoever lived in this body of mine before had no rights to it now. The old me lost that battle the moment they left home for good. 'I can only help you exist, I can't help you live.' funny how the cravings would disappear under the weight of crushing guilt. So heavy it drags me down beneath the waves of self-fucking-pity, holding my body down long enough for my lungs to start aching and the harsh reality to sink right back in. I'm a fucking mess, and I have no right to claim the victim.
This is it now, all I've wrought in the years dependent on every selfish whim.
But today is a different story altogether. Today is grief for all the wrong reasons. More ways to loathe myself for an existence I don't quite believe in. Who else could stare at an open casket and wonder how they'll stop themselves from indulging in their vices; I'm a special kind of devil for it. Can't say it's too surprising. Mark had a way with pretty words, a way that kept me on the up and up for the past four goddamned years. A savior in the shell of a man twice as damned. Cold and dead now, because thats how the world works when you live in filth.
The best men die in the worst ways. His had been the pain of disease. Destroying him from the inside out with every passing days. A long year of agonizing medications and a dozen or so experimental treatments that took the away the last of his youth.
Nothing matters much anymore, its all gone now and I am alone in an empty church with a casket holding the most important person in my life. P a t h e t i c. The last speck of whimsical kindness snuffed in an instant. Pity, he hadn't gotten to meet the real person behind my skin. The girl who is not Chloe, but whom is not the child that grew up under gods rules.
Is it selfish that the tears aren't for him? Nor the family that didn't show up because half of them are ten kinds of addicted to the needle, just the same as most of the people in this city.
The tears are for me, the selfish fucking brat who can't stop the itch on her own. The viewing doesn't end fast enough to sate the need curling in my gut. I've got a bone to pick with a pretty lady, and there's nothing left to stop anymore.
A back alley handy and pity pay to bring me two steps closer to finding my shallow grave and lying down in it.
Least I'll have enough money for a sandwich and a h a n d f u l o f O x y.
Relapse has never tasted so sweet.