where the writers are
night hallucinations

locked up in a yellow room, on my own accord, i do everything i like, and everything i hate, so it is a combination of self-appreciation and self-detest. i can carve the word PAIN on my flesh at the same moment when i am thinking i am pleased with my new painting... and when i wake up, be it midnight, dawn, morning, or evening, i try so hard to know, was it a night-mare i had or a pleasant dream? i look at the phone, i wish it goes off, but completely determined that i won't answer the call if it happens...

am i or am i not?

i am the only one who loves him, while all he gets is hate, fear and panic... i am his enemy, but i must be for him to be.. i am the one who caresses him after he kills... i am the one who sees.. i am his enemy that should be kept safe.. he cannot harm me, he wouldn't...

but when he is gone, why is she so torn apart? the enemy of herself, and herself the enemy of her... this time two cannot be, only one should survive or both will be killed...

i sound bitter, my laughs are bitter, which is sick-mindness.. people are not comfortable when i am around, i am so perfect yet disintegrating, like the corpse of a beauty queen, cannot be blamed for her death, yet the sight is intimidating because it tells them perfection is no salvation.. those wavy brows i get to see when i speak, a middle area between sympathy and abhorence... but i don't have to endure all this when he is here, all smeared and scarred yet beautiful in his imperfection... in his evil..

i am hated as much as he is, the only difference is that people don't know they do... i am the living evidence that aims and targets should be shifted if time and effort mean anything.. and he is the proof that we are the murderers of criminals' victims, we are the terrorists of the children of war.. yes, yes, we are both hated, you and me, my darling, my virtuous devil.....

i started with P of PLEASURE and ended with N of PAIN....

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that's intense..

that's intense..