what an interesting word, you suppose. how it can be thrown around at a whim, how gently bumping into a stranger would certify a muttered sorry under bated breath. yet . . .
murder of a family— murder of a YOUNG CHILD. what does that deserve ? does it deserve an uttered sorry, when the other can’t even BARE to look at your face, your eyes. can she see the lost years ? can she understand the lost time ?the fear ?
you suppose not. only someone who has died can understand your horror. at first, for some reason, you feel anger bubble within your soul — you feel despair. after these long years of searching for one person, she stands in front of you. mere inches from yourself.
though, you suppose, you can’t help it. she doesnt even know you’re here.
standing there, at your grave she constructed.
you could easily run up, hug her from behind — cry, sob, lament about how much you’ve missed her. but yet . . . you stay. you watch as she apologizes, quietly watching. you dont say anything — you only watch.
and you don’t move.& slowly you feel your body warp, churn, & change. you feel rot begin to claw at your porcelain features, you feel the need to curse, to hunt. to hurt.
its such a gentle transformation, one that doesnt even deserves the birds’ attention.
dededos
turnnoffyourmind
discoholicmusic
gummygunk
