| They say that dead men tell no tales. A man who is dead only on the inside can still talk, but his lips utter stories of tears shed and heartbreaks many. I am always seeing couples as I am out in public, and honestly, I always look at the man and wonder why the woman is with him and not me. I must be garbage, dead and stinking refuse on the inside, though I am physically attractive. That is what I tell myself, and I know that I am the only person who loves me deeply. I have fallen in love with myself, for I have no other person to fall in love with. I do not care that I may be evil; I am very intelligent. I do not care that I am obviously a narcissist and that I am contradictory; I may be pretty ugly, but I am also hideously beautiful. But each night I have to fall asleep alone, and those walls come crashing down like ramparts of tears. And deep inside, and on bad nights, close to my surface, I wish that the dead inside me would leave my soul and take my body, so that I may leave this putrid world and stop delaying the inevitable passing of a monster who never wanted to be one. |
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