She furiously scribbles down the words of deception. “Pathetic”, she murmers under her breath.
She’s frustrated, she always is. Lost in her self conjured realm of a black hole containing nothing but baseless and pointless rants. She feeds on the self pity that disgusts her.
“Move on, you drag” she grumbles like a mumbling thunder. Rage is all she can think of. A rage that she can not explain, neither it’s origin, nor it’s destination.
It is a façade, she knows it. After all, she hates cracking open her chest to show off the bloody heart pumping in it’s battered form. Plunging into negativity is always something she does, often and fondly. It was sick, maybe psychotic. But she needs to put a finger on the throbbing pain. She can’t, unless it can be percieve through her senses.
Sweet surrender, it is. Her vanity swells up to over confidence. She is so sure that she can rise from her ashes. Before that, she has to proceed with her own funeral, burn her own dead body and then reserruct from the dust and smoke that once was her flesh and blood.
“How Emily Dickinson-ish of me”, she snickers.
She slowly raises her bloodshot gaze. The dying amber of the dusk lit a fire in her eyes accompanied by the twitch of her lips that formed a grin.