14/07 -- the day i muse.
I AM ARMELLE. I SHALL MUSE.
Diary,
What makes you think you deserve to be dear? You aren't dear to me, oh, Diary. You're just a bundle of paper I keep stuffed underneath my stern mattress and vent to whenever I can. As if you care, Diary. You don't, however. Not a single word in your godforsaken pages could give a damn about what I have to say. You feed off my misery, just threading my sorrows together into a story for yourself. You're attention seeking, you never want me to put you down. You control me, the dreams you bind for me to believe sticking close in the palm of my hand. As close as the knife on my nightstand. As addictive as the thought of his blood on the floor.
What's he done, you may ask, Diary? Oh, you don't care, do you? I'll tell you one of my own stories, Diary. I'll save you the time for creating them yourself.
Think of a boy. A boy with ink black hair which curls at his temples, and green eyes which frost over my body every time he looks at me. Think of his callused fingers running up the hem of my T-Shirt, and his breaths heavy on my neck and his hips steady on mine. Think of the words he sighs melting into my skin, and my heart swelling with blood as he tugs away from me, slipping on his shirt and snap back. Think of his voice, husky and mellow and a metaphor itself -- a metaphor used for the silence of a forest or the hum of night. Think of his laugh, delicious and sweet and best to hear when it's because of me. Worst to hear when it's at me. Think of his parted lips along my neck, and him saying softly, "Just tonight," and of course, I agree. But, just tonight turned into "Just two more nights", and soon, I'm waking up with him every morning, but it still is nothing.
Now, it's less than nothing, less than the void I thought was already there.
Now, I'm going to kill him. Spill his blood.
I'm going to kill Michael Clifford.
