There is a certain death in detachment. And it is a raging storm I see within, when at points at the bottom of the pit, I hear the shrieking love of holding on to pain, to that deep feeling, that thrill of the bleed, the high of the rage, and right when the shriek must inhale to resume, I see the quiet looming old ghost of detachment, cool, contemplating with smile, no smirk, eyes twinkling, telling me, ah you silly girl, you know I am what you seek. The burn of alcohol, the cool of ice. One rich and hot, the other wise and insipid. I hold on to the fire but the grip loosens. And that knowledge, that I must die to be happy. It is quite the trade off.
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