20/07 -- the day i trip.
I AM ARMELLE. I SHALL TRIP.
Diary,
Michael and I have been meeting quite often recently, and it feels so refreshing. Not in the I'm -so-helplessly-in-love fashion, but more in the craving way. Every time I touch him, I think of the brand new, pristine gun just lying beside my butcher's knife in the nightstand. I think of the exact sound the gun will make as it explodes it's bullet into Michael's stomach, or how gripping the knife feels as I plunge it into his chest. I can almost imagine the thickness of it, how easy it would be to get in but difficult to get back out.
I can't believe I'm allowing myself to daydream, Diary. I hate not being self aware, but with that being said, I'm tripping right now. Perhaps that's why my handwriting breathes underneath my worn out pencil, or why my room is a bubbling and bloating mess of neon colours. I don't think I can bring myself to describe the radiant lights and fluorescent ribbons in any other way than neon. Neon... the word tastes like oranges on my tongue. Oranges. Blood oranges. Michael tastes like blood oranges, with his citrus tang and acidic hint.
Everything feels alive, now. My rose-red mattress, my dripping walls, the crayons sitting broken and splayed across my table. Everything is alive. And so is Michael.
But soon he'll be dead.
Adn i'Ll haVE teH weapooN in mY HANdsS
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if you guys are confused the last line is the lsd taking a toll on armelle im not that illiterate
