i am dead. swaying in the cool breeze of the night. hanging by nothing but a thread. a web from my widow is all i have. my noose. i am alone. rotting in this cold, brittle shell of what i used to be. swaying in the breeze made by butterflies. they don't care. they may be beautiful on the outside, but their heart is black as coal. they made me do this. they made me want to die. i am suicide. i am not the only one. all we want is acceptance. all we want is wings. to fly away, not to sway in the breeze of the laughing beauties.
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