'Sometimes the ghosts win'
Ghosts live in my house, the demons of the past creep around the corners. The monsters sleep not under my bed but in it. The boogey man takes rest inside of me, I know it. The creepy crawleys of every girl’s nightmares creep out of my skin, they settle like dust on the window sill. I am the ghost that haunts my house. I am the Demons that creep. I am a monster. I am a self and ever destructive monster, consumed with jealousy and hate and love. I am a cover to a book that no one could ever read, I’m too scary, with no true rating. Noone wants to sell me, no one wants to buy me, too strange. I will never be recycled; I am but merely too evil. I’m not their type. The world could never understand, too consumed with stereotypes. Call me what you want, the names are printed in my skin like scars and they make me laugh, I fail to care time and time again. Surface scars. Surface scars. They are so different to what is within. So deep. So deep in my skin. There is something strange and different and beautiful about it. Something too scary for everyone else. I will kill you. I will think about it, plan it, but never, ever execute it. I couldn’t. I am weak. Surface strength, inner weak.

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