ExpiredSeraphine_
Seraphine
- Jul 15, 2023
- 4
The blade of a guillotine will fall, and my angel wings shall be severed with it. Those beautiful, shadow-stained wings will disappear. These angel wings are the last hope. I will live and die by those wings. I look forward to that falling of the guillotine, but, for now, I can only mimic that graceful elegance with a razor.
Life is often a razor's edge, and that's the most hurtful part of it. Life can (and will) stain you red with blood, just as the very same razor I use to stain myself red with that crimson, exhilarating blood does too. I do it to feel anything else besides the relentless, unending apathy.
I guess a few words can describe how I feel right now: Freak, pathetic, worthless.
All of those also happen to apply to me too. I really should not be alive; I know I don't deserve to.
Maybe this is just an unending ouroboros of hatred, suffering, vanity and a frightening shallowness. Again, all things that I have.
Worthless doesn't really describe it very well; I'm less than that. All this self-destruction is just taking a toll on me, and I don't want that angel to be in my heart anymore. I just want the world to be as cold and dead as I am.
Black, White. My manipulative tendencies combined with the duality of the world makes it a chess board. Black and white squares, and the pieces that I move.
I personally prefer the red of blood, though, it's much more colourful.
This is the final scene of the act.
For the curtain call shall come, and the painless extrication of my wings will soon follow.
Shadows shall be stained with blood, and blood shall be stained with shadows, and I shall return back to the loving embrace of whatever hell I came from.
There is a quote, from Ozymandias: "Look on my works, ye mighty, and despair, for I am Ozymandias, king of kings" That vast, endless desert of ruination is exactly what I wish to become, and my shattered wings shall sink into the apathy of obscurity.
Often, when I write of wings, I write about infinite, pearlescent colours, for that angel that was once in my heart. My wings, however, are only beautiful insofar as they are an infinite symbol of that ruin.
That ruinous beauty.
The angel in my heart is dead. And I killed her.
Goodbye,
Seraphine.
Life is often a razor's edge, and that's the most hurtful part of it. Life can (and will) stain you red with blood, just as the very same razor I use to stain myself red with that crimson, exhilarating blood does too. I do it to feel anything else besides the relentless, unending apathy.
I guess a few words can describe how I feel right now: Freak, pathetic, worthless.
All of those also happen to apply to me too. I really should not be alive; I know I don't deserve to.
Maybe this is just an unending ouroboros of hatred, suffering, vanity and a frightening shallowness. Again, all things that I have.
Worthless doesn't really describe it very well; I'm less than that. All this self-destruction is just taking a toll on me, and I don't want that angel to be in my heart anymore. I just want the world to be as cold and dead as I am.
Black, White. My manipulative tendencies combined with the duality of the world makes it a chess board. Black and white squares, and the pieces that I move.
I personally prefer the red of blood, though, it's much more colourful.
This is the final scene of the act.
For the curtain call shall come, and the painless extrication of my wings will soon follow.
Shadows shall be stained with blood, and blood shall be stained with shadows, and I shall return back to the loving embrace of whatever hell I came from.
There is a quote, from Ozymandias: "Look on my works, ye mighty, and despair, for I am Ozymandias, king of kings" That vast, endless desert of ruination is exactly what I wish to become, and my shattered wings shall sink into the apathy of obscurity.
Often, when I write of wings, I write about infinite, pearlescent colours, for that angel that was once in my heart. My wings, however, are only beautiful insofar as they are an infinite symbol of that ruin.
That ruinous beauty.
The angel in my heart is dead. And I killed her.
Goodbye,
Seraphine.
