please stop your complaining.

If I could, I would force you to the outskirts of our oh so reassuring suburbia. Nuclear family. Nuclear family. Nuclear family. This is what you wanted, right? Because everything has come together so fucking perfectly. I will be the vultures that pick your scabs and eat the skin from your face, and I will be the decay that sets in as your organs cease to function. The cancer in our lungs is the same, but I hate every last thing about you. Did I get under your skin? I meant to be as a parasite, crawling up your spine and feeding on our indifference and our inability to make sense of each other. Your masks are in the basement now; I put them there and dissected each one until I could understand the ways in which they function and tear every inch of hope from our lives. The benign sense of self I once knew. The childish pictures stored up in my head. I am well aware that none of it is real, and that nothing will ever live up to the time of now faded comfort, but you gave me every reason to cut my insides to pieces and let go of better things. This will be the end of you.

thanks buddy.