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april 18th, 2012.therapy:
"I'm not an artist. I'm just a kid with a keyboard."
“And, y'know, I’m probably not really sick.”
“I read a lot of books. I probably just act like this because I saw it somewhere on the Internet.”
“I just want to be more like my dad.”
“I’m really just a pathological crybaby who wants attention,” I tell you.
You say, “I think there are better ways to get attention than fake a mental disorder.”
“Maybe I’m doing it for fun.”
The problem isn’t that I need to see a therapist.
The problem is that I need to see a therapist because I dream about slamming your head into a tree.
Right after we broke up, you took me to the bike cage and promised me everything would be okay. Then you got together with that fifteen year old from Michigan and told our friends that I was a freak.
Slamming your head into a tree might be painful, but nothing will ever hurt more than kn
You don't just die.Do you understand?
The blade against your wrist
Doesn't just slice your skin.
It cuts through others
Do you understand?
You don't just kill yourself.
You kill everyone.
From YOUR goodbyes.
Do you understand?
You don't just die.
You take everyone down
TriggerI will be the victim and the cruel words on your lips
I will be the sin resting among your fingertips
I will be the innocence you lost so long ago
I will be the many things you never dared to know
I will be the throbbing heart and I will be your tears
I will be the basis of your undiscovered fears
I will be the aching mind, the troublesome disease
I will be the deadly heartbeat, you these things will please
I will be emotionless to make you seem so pure
I will find a beating heart, and then I'll find the cure
I will be the heartlessness that helps you to survive
I will pull the trigger just to make you seem alive...
You're Not?You're anorexic if you're thin
You're not? Then you're obese.
If you're different, you're insane
You're not? Then you're a fake.
If you're happy, you're hiding something.
You're not? You must be emo.
If you're dating, you're a slut.
You're not? You must have no friends.
If you're popular, you're a jerk.
You're not? You're a nobody.
If you're quiet, you must be disabled.
You're not? You obnoxious freak.
If you're you, you're wrong.
Then you must be perfect.
Tatattatatataaaaguuuusuuuuu1.- You must posts these rules.
2.- Each person has to share 10 things about them
3.- Answer the 10 questions asked to you and tag another
• My laptop's name is Toshi.
• I enjoy playing Hack and slash games (Kratos FTW!!!!)
• I don't like bitter things (like rust on steel)
• I enjoy raising chickens
• They say my naming sense is a bit off (Maybe because I used to name my ninja characters from an old comic after Japanese places e.g. Aomori Sendai, Kobe Takamatsu, Dozo Wakayama...)
• I get lost in my own neighborhood ;w;
• I like my drinks cold than hot (like ice coffee, Iced Tea, Pearl shakes etc)
• I don't really like fire but it looks beautiful. I am conflicted whether to touch it or not to touch it... but it looks beautiful ;w;
• I am really thin but I eat like a dinosaur
• I like to hug....pillows
tagged by :iconkida-neechan:
EEnE, EdEdd, Spaghetti
He ate slowly, mindful of the drip of sauce as it ran from his fork and back onto the white plate. Ed watched the display carefully, as though he would be quizzed later on. For a moment, Double-D allowed him to, but swiftly found that the attention was bringing an un-necessary heat to his face and hands.
Gingerly, he let the fork rest against the plate's side, where it made only a small sound before laying still. "Ed? Is there anything I can get you?"
A good host ought to ask. But Ed said No, and the staring went on.
He coughed, and went to pick up the fork, but then hesitated. "Are you sure? You seem... intent about something."
"I am," Ed said quietly, as if he truly understood what Double-D meant. "Don't worry."
Double-D, inexplicably, flushed. He knew it was happening, because his head instantly dropped to avoid Ed's gaze, and his face felt far, far too hot. He looked at the hands in his lap, and they were a brilliant red color. Almost as red as the spaghetti sauce.
Briefly, the boy
He is unusually languid, spread across Ed's bed and flipping idly through an outdated science mag. His neck aches from holding the awkward position, but he waits to finish one more article before pushing the magazine away and stretching-
-brushing against Ed's prone form.
"Are you still sleeping?" he asks softly, running one finger across a series of freckles that dot Ed's hand.
"Mm-mm," Ed negates, sitting up and catching the other boy's hand in his own. The tall young man's eyes are half-closed, and foggy with sleep. Blankets pool around his mid-section, and the t-shirt he'd stripped down to is clinging to his toned midsection.
"I'll turn down the electric blanket," the shorter one offers, and just as he's finished saying it, it's done. Ed smiles sleepily at him, and the blonde's heart catches in his throat.
Ed's smile seems quiet and lofty, and he asks, "What? Double-D?"
Double-D flushes and looks down, hoping to be lost in the folds of his sweater. It's only that- does Ed have any
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