You may know me as your neighbor, your best freind. Your cousin Mark, or your sister Josephine. A freindly smile. A hearty laugh.

But in reality I'm dead.

I'm really the monster beneath your bed, waiting to crawl out. I'm the shadow that lurks in the icolated corners of your deepest, most utmost personal thoughts. I'm a thing so utterly repulsive and in confused pain, that I kill to ease the dull hurt that eats away at where my heart would be. The hurt of not having someone to hold. The hurt of knowing you were the one to destroy everything you once held dear.

The hurt a tear makes running down your cheek.



Don't give me pity. It's useless. Don't tell me what I am...I can't be gothic. I don't do stereotypes. Nor could I reach being dubbed as 'emo...'

How could I if I have no emotions to begin with? In other words, what else can I be but nothing? A void body of mass that tempts the mind with lustful hopes, but is untouchable. An empty shell, with a slaughtered soul that's looking for something to cling to, in the last resorts for life.

So, on a lighter note of life, here I am, thrust into the mess of deviantart, all thanks to the only person who'd even bother to start to comprehend the depths of the abyss known as my soul;



Thanks a ton for making me expose myself to the world. And I know you don't like me to call her what I call her, but Mom says hi.