andthenitwentboom

The Art of Losing Face When I was a child I was born with a face it was flushed with blood and healthy lifeforce full of wrinkled expression and gummy smiles it was a face of defiant uncaring judgment did not mar it insult, criticism, labels bounced off rounded cheeks, and gossip was repelled with sunny distain my happy gurgles, my spit bubbles, my unaccustomed eyes parted the world with such innocence, a beaming face of love over a chubby-fisted embrace it was a true face But over the years, it crumbled and now it is weak and ugly and fake a mask of makeup and false answers said in a sugary voice I do not look in the

There's a pounding in my head. It sounds like inspiration. sending shivers down my neck. feels something like inspiration. soon i choke on my breath. clutching deep to respiration. its the best i can get. and its nothing like sedation. i'm alive. i feel nothing of the sort. and i have tried. but the line was far too short. its the time. its the weakness of the moment, i am fine. i'll be better now i know it. and if i could go back to then, i would stop you; take the knife. i would ask you how you feel and i'm sure you'd be alright. here's the deal, here's the last dance of the night. this cant be real, but chances are