livid

tiny fragments of glass, the sharpest edges, the deadliest stare that can knock down an entire platoon of the highest form of men. i pity you and your promises.

sickly and grotesque bile-like masks that you wear, that i want to rip off from your face, rip to shreds like i want to do away with your inner confused pitiful pathetic core.

and then start anew.

WITHOUT having to wonder if the cycle will repeat. WITHOUT the possiblity of history repeating itself. WITHOUT knowing that this is not futile, not a waste of my time, not the beginning of the end.