"I've learned love is like a brick you can, build a house or sink a dead body."
It is early in the morning and the black ink on my arms coupled with the entwined and unrelenting voices in my head coo and comfort me.
I am Judas, the one who betrays. The one who reaches and destroys.
Beautiful patterns splash across my forearms; Lines springing and tracing my misery and my condolences. I have never been innocent yet I have never been angry and hateful. . . I have only loved.
Black ink is pressed against my palms, it is comforting in a way. I wrap my hands around my handle bars while bearing down on the bike's flaying plastic with hot and hurtful hatred for my unhallowed desires and misinterpreted love. I am revving my fists towards my forever tricky freedom, pumping and panting. My rough fingertips press and prod into the thick palms of my hands, the hands that wearily remind me of the working and unremitting precursor that I (on a daily basis) remorse and regret not living up to. I can not help but grow infuriated at myself and our situation. I know I've lost my voice because I have spent my evenings screaming to my disparaging reflection in a smokey, moist mirror. . . where I currently and will forever-here-after reside. I've been hiding behind responsibilities and love I cannot deny. I will lose my mind and lose all that I cling to.
I feign for the camera lens of our society yet I try, desperately to exist for something deeper.