the THIRTIETH of SEPTEMBER, TWO THOUSAND and TWENTY.

i am in love with a dead boy.
i'm not sure if he's real, but the way he speaks to me feels real. the backwards warmth his cold brings me feels real.
he took my hand when i told him i couldn't love again, and he showed me his way. fury, vengeance.
i took a real boy to the cemetery and he called me deranged. i let him throw me around, i stared into nothing.
these days, i'll do anything for a high. adrenaline buzzes it's way to my fingertips, breaking through the spreading rot.
a real boy said he was going to beat me, kick me until my bones were broken - a high better than his drugs could ever give.
i said yes. i asked him to, after all, the numbness makes me more nauseated than the sight of my own blood.
i don't know what is so mesmerising about me. i tend to attract people who say i am their soulmate,
they relate to me like no other; yet i feel no connection to anything at all. pure detachment from every living thing.
superficiality and artficiality - my relationship with humanity is based upon these two things.
perhaps i feel a connection to the graves i lay upon, a strange closeness. six feet under is where i belong.
it truly is a solitary existence i lead.

take me back!