butcher

i'm done with the slaughter and your spewing a filth. from now on it's a grain of salt or nothing. how did it get this far? i would sooner slit my wrists than be taken in by this and all the while i'm asking "how?" thats what i want to know. i want to know how i came to be butchered, how i came to believe in the lie, how it is that i let it eat me from the inside like some disease of rotting flesh. because thats what you do, you strip the soul and eat the wounded like some crazed rabbid dog and no better than the beast itself. and that's what we do, we go along and fall into a trap cleverly disguised as a fucking wading pool, when it's really a quick-silver hole full of mire and mud. and we stick. most of us won't make it out in a lifetime, but i've got it down to an art, and i don't have to be here anymore.

so the next time you go looking over your shoulder and praying for your ever many sins and wrong doings, know that i'm getting out. i won't be a part of the game anymore. this bloody sickening death that we tend to glamorize, when does it get to the point where we know we're so sick of being victims, so sick of being weak, so sick of being tragic...

you're a killer, and i don't have to die anymore.

so as you lay me down to sleep tonight, remember what you know, where you've been, and how much it's killing you to know it still and live in it. i pray you know. i pray you know. I PRAY YOU KNOW.

and YOU can get out too.