Waiting for the Werewolf
2009-08-31, 12:00 a.m.


It's dark, I'm tired and alone again. Maybe it's an omen: only one week and I'm already alone.

Out the window the water off the peir is moving violently so it must be windy. Or maybe someone's shaking the Earth. I adore staring out the window into the ocean water that was carefully poured between Texas and Mexico.

Halloween has guided the rest to Corpus Cristi tonight. But not me. I have all night to sit alone with my delusions and right now the world smells like pepsi; deep and sweet.

Rocky and Bullwinkle keep me company in my solitude as I peel fresh scabs from my wrists, chewing at my arm to reveal the new skin beneath.

Both wrists are now new, and I chew on dead white blood cells that I had watched form this barrier all but a week ago.

I take one last gaze into the gulf of Mexico (where the ocean goes to die) and flip off the tv. After all, it might me what's scaring away the rain.

"And with that, the glass above her cracked into a million bits and she cried out, 'so the story fits...'"
-Emilie Autumn, Shallot

Do nothing

Repitition of HatredLoveless AvenueBurn Out (and) Fade Away