the FOURTH OF JANUARY, TWO THOUSAND and TWENTY ONE.

i crave to be the centre of attention in the worst way.
a sickly doll, emaciated and fragile. the palest flesh that barely holds on to my decaying bones.
a corpse, a masterpiece of death and suffering. covered in wounds and scars and scabs. dead hair and even deader eyes.
i want to play with bugs and insects, crawling all over my skin. vomit and blood and tears, sustenance for my friends.
people will look at me and be traumatised, disturbed. people will whisper behind my back. neverending.
my perfectly created piece of art - myself. i am my own exhibition. frail yet resilient. too revolting to hurt.
i find beauty in the most abhorrent things. i discovered beauty in my ungodly downfall.
i found beauty in my mind's temptations. so why wouldnt i give in? it's all so beautiful. bones and veins and dying.
i was a fresh flower, i'm rotting into nothing but compost and dirt. an inferiority complex personified.

take me back!