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Burned the picture
Tears, tears, go away and fucking stay that way. They honey blonde growled, blowing a puff of dark grey smoke from his mouth, the last of his cigarette disappearing. Plucking the now useless paper from his lips he threw it on the grass and ground it in the ground. Grabbing the nearly empty box from his pocket he lit another.
Aquamarine eyes narrowed as he stared at the faded photograph in his hand. How long had it been? 3 months? Oh, wait, thats right, 5 years. You werent supposed to die damnit. Another puff of toxic smoke. It was my fight. Whyd you go and play hero? Twisting his fingers around the cigarette he barely noticed the burn as he crushed it. Letting the butt fall to the ground he pulled up his black lighter, the lighter fluid almost completely gone.
Another crystal tear slipped from his eye, dropping to the picture. The faded face of the one time submissive red head blushing up at him. Damn you, Matt. Damn you
Alone in a crowded roomAll alone in this crowded room.
My eyes meet one another.
They do not see me for what I am.
They see the smile on my face;
The lies that Im holding, in order to keep myself together.
They do not know the pain I feel.
Their smile is real.
So I am alone in this crowded room;
Waiting for someone to see through;
To save me from myself from the loneliness...
that has overcome me;
I am a slave to this feeling;
Waiting for something better,
Suffering in myself,
Needing a savior.
He won't winI almost didn't get up this morning
You see, I've been having some inner struggles lately
To say I don't have energy would be an understatement
I know many are going to say
I should talk about why I'm feeling this way
Truth is I don't even know
Sometimes I just get like this
I tossed and turned last night
All the dreams I had
When will they end?
The thoughts of cutting
The thoughts of isolation
I can't be doing this
I don't need to give in to those things
If I gave in I would be letting the devil win
he doesn't deserve to win
I deserve to win...
I think it's time for a walk
Murderous LoveThick crimson red blood dripped off the end of the silver steel. Dark grey eyes were emotionless as the albino teen staired down at the dead man, the man he'd just murdered.
"Well done Near." A low monotone voice giggled in delight. Near looked up from the bloody mess and into the glint of Beyond Birthday's murderous eyes.
The raven haired serial killer stepped out of the shadows and grinned a heartless, murdrous chesire cat grin. His white shirt was splattered with dried blood, along with his face, hands and bare feet. The coppery smell burned Near's nose, but he refused to look away. This man, this crazy man, was the key to what the white haired teen wanted.
"Tell me what I have to do." The albino demanded, his voice low and emotionless. BB watched in delight as blood dripped from the knife and down Near's pale hands, staining the milky skin, the teen's white shirt, and forever staining his innocent soul.
A low insane giggle slipped from the L copy, "Happy Birthday, Neary."
I told you soI told you so! The raven haired mans cry was pained as he grabbed at his own messy black hair. I told you so! he cried, tears welling in his obsidian eyes. The younger brunet across from him looked away, the pain in the detectives voice enough to break him apart. I told you someday youd come crawling back! I told you! His voice cracked.
Please dont yell like that Ryuuzaki
NO! Dont call me that! Dont talk to me like that! Not like you used to! Silver tears slid down flushed cheeks. Dont talk to me in the voice that used to say I love you. A choked cry ripped from his throat, You left me. You left me for that whore. Left me AND the kids. Another pained cry, They loved you. I loved you! They wanted you home as much as me!
Light finally looked at the distraught man, his honey eyes burning, They dont love me. Those little devi
The Coffee GodThe Coffee God behind the counter shuffles foot to foot, a dance of steam and espresso. Black painted fingernails, inch gauged ears and a gray striped sweatshirt, hood crooked on his back. There's a cigarette tucked behind one ear; it bobs and twitches with each step.
“Non-fat caramel latte,” he calls, just as he always does, part of a spell, part of a mantra, toneless (just a tuck at the end). I reach. He looks up.
The espresso maker hisses.
There's something like a grin, something like a spark, something like a shared secret linked eye to eye. When he passes over the drink (rough cardboard sleeve hot to the touch), he lingers. Our fingers brush, a shiver, a jolt, a ten-watt shock.
The Coffee God tilts his chin, shouts, “Hey, mind if I take my break now?”
and ducks around the counter without waiting for a reply.
He slips his cigarette between his lips without taking his eyes from mine. I follow him out the door.
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