I wonder. Why? Why do I wonder? Because if I could do other than wonder, I wouldn't be wondering, here in this whimsical world of wonder.
What if I hadn't been so stupid and blind? So ignorant to what I had? Would things have turned out differently? Would they have turned out... what's that word... good? Or would the inevitable have simply been delayed? I am not one to know. Stripped of my dignity, my will, my love for everything. My hopes, my treasures;
Words spoken tell of repent, but how can I have faith when all I've known are lies?
Precious, glorious, promising lies.
And I believed them.
I wonder... simply wonder...
Have eyes of blue not shed enough tears? My soul of good intention not corrupted and blackened enough? Is my truth still not bent to your liking? Have I not seen enough blood to sate you?
Am I not twisted enough?
Am I not pure?
Am I not dead?
I can only wonder what you want. I can only guess what you're going to do, only imagine, only hope. Because I can't do anything anymore. Shut me out, shut me down, close yourself off in your own little world of perfection. A world I don't exist in.
I probably never did.
The most beautifully sickening thing is deceit, like a poison smelling of roses and promise.
Once consumed; you'll bleed inside.
A sublime death of blinding, beautiful lies, the thorns of a black rose...
Or an ugly truth.