Italic Lives

take note. the arm is rigid. the needle soft. the ink it injects dark.

how? how can you still not know me yet?

learn. from what you put into and what you give.

how many? how many strangers does it take to find a friend?

it's the hour that disturbs with its futile precision. so unlike the manic flow of thoughts as they ricochet against these words.

how can i be repressed as these sensations boil and burn? how can i be anything now that nothing matters?

it's before that we question. and after that we learn. the darkness has grown no darker. but the light has weakened. truth is, i never wanted to see.

how can i feel again? do i want to?

this taste in my mouth, so familiar. tongue sweating. lips numb. the kiss of solitude so dominant.

how could those restraints have any effect now? i've worn them so long. i only feel alive when i am a victim.


  1. In your Italic Lives post I see you fighting with what you consider your conscience.


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