[If you read this, you most likely wont understand. If you think you do, you are subject to your own opinion. You may comment on whichever part you desire to; I don't mind. I'd love to see how this reads to an outsider. As for me, I need to see this published. I need to think, and write it all as I think; express every emotion that I feel the need to. It may be triggering, it may be disturbing, it may be downright psychotic. I apologize. Other than that, enjoy the long read.] Quite the hopeless, misunderstood lover I am. Devoted completely and entirely in such a way, with a mind for commitment and the utmost purity of truth. I stand upon that ledge and I can feel the rush to my utmost content. A smile plays on my lips; I sacrifice so much for my love. I sacrifice everything. I am nothing and he is everything. My happiness is obsolete, yet his rides with the Gods. I am but the lamb on a slab of stone; my sacrifice for his purity. He is my angel. What a dark angel indeed. With bruised lips, poisoned by the lies he spills sinfully over the ones he claims to love most; eyes gleaming with a most angered understanding, similar to the shine, the gleam that glitters on the edges of a blade. Such evil, such corruption, clouding the senses with a sweet intoxication, addiction, a burning, passionate desire. His tongue is sharp, and his stance is towering. His shadow will blanket your form and forever you will remain within that stance. The blanket of darkness is comforting and warm, and you care not that you are on your knees, shivering below his form, with eyes cast to him that plead for his instructions. His hands caress your cheek and he promises you that forever you will be his; he will protect you and love you as his own, even in death. It is all you need. Those words, bleeding freely from his lips, are the reason for your being. The moment you turn your back on him when you realize that his heart lies elsewhere, the world is cold. Your addiction brings you to tears, to pain, to your knees. He admits to me that he is over me, two days after I leave him for the survival of his happiness. I find out later that the women for which his heart craves, loves him not; I discover the truth of the women he loved, and the difference between my own existence within his life. Chained his wrist will forever be my heart, engraved upon the slates of his mind will forever be the memories; my gifts, my secrets, my money, my sacrifices. Forever in my mind are his lies, and the lack of value my sacrifices had. Forever on my body are the scars that tell this story. Forever in my soul is the fear of being alone. Forever in my life is the reality of being alone. The alcohol mixes well with my blood. The, the blood, it mixes well with tears. They mix well against ceramic. And my voice, my pitiful moaning and whimpering; it mixes well with the sounds echoing through the empty house as my fingers caress the cold white keys of the piano. In my mind are pictures of small, round pills scattered neatly along a table; it is not a memory, only a realization. They are his meds, his apparent pull towards reality. Manic Depressive. Suicidal. Troubled. Words that begin to bleed behind my shut eyelids. Why had he stopped? Why had he convinced himself that he was better off within his past; that he was better brushing off all words that would normally trouble anyone, and embrace the idea of death like a mother embraces its child? Lies. Lies lies. My piano keys drone on and on, and the melody tells a story. My tears, gray with the mixture of mascara and bleeding through, leak through the keys, and my fingers are slipping across the keys. I'm losing grip, losing grip on my story. It's a story of my existence, I cannot lose it, I cannot. Silence. Blood and Alcohol and Tears mix best with silence. Sobs are more beautiful when they echo back at you, full, desperate, weary. Beauty beyond words. Where is the reality? Silence screams nothing but truth, but at what cost? At what cost will this remain? I turn not to him, but to his brother. Him and the blade are one; they love you not, but you love them, because within pain they comfort you. They tower over you and you are cast within their shadow. A blanket of nothingness. What comfort remains but the reality of nothing? May I become that nothing.