This may very well be the end to us. I've reached that line I said I would never cross, and you're running across it like it's nothing. How can I follow you when my body won't move? My mind is screaming no, but my heart is crying out yes! Oh, darling, you've made me into such a cliche.
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I woke up early this morning and dragged an industrial black marker across the flesh over my left shoulder until the skin was dripping with ink. My heart felt suffocated, but I knew my ribcage would hold back the poison. I have to be honest here. It felt good to fall back into my simple addiction. After all, ink poisoning only kills about three people a year. Nothing wrong with that, is there? Three people isn't enough.
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I scribbled until my chest ached from the pressure, and my shoulder hurt to move. My shirt was the thin layer that saved me from the world's judgement. Without it, I would have nothing but my blackened skin and a lie on my tongue about how it got there. Nothing could explain it. It was too perfect, too beautiful. It looked like art painted across my shoulderblade. I wanted my right to match, but I'm right-handed and didn't have the time to learn my left hand to work.
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Cancer boy thinks I'm out to get him. I would love to color his ribs black and blue just because he would mourn the lose of his perfect white skin. Sound boy told me that I scare him. With shoulders like mine, who couldn't I scare? I wanted to trace his spine with my marker and number each vertebrae as if connecting them would create something beautiful.
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