Revenge Is Sweeter (Or, How I Learned To Stop Running)

I need release.

I need to blanket these streets in my own words, and make sure that every last one of them who smiled when I fell can feel these pages rush over them like frigid rain water in their open wounds.

I need those who cut into me with battle cries of “fat ass” and “faggot” and “failure” to know that their cuts never ran as deep as the ones I made on my own mind, or the one I almost made to end it all.

I need the feeling of being lost in an opulent dream instead of a brick-walled nightmare, everything I’ve ever wanted twisting into something imperfect, because I’ve never had perfection, much less ever needed it.

I need to see the lights, hear them, feel them, live them, ever-changing and in sync with the 4-on-the-floor pieces of me I lay bare.

I need the gritty and unsafe, I need to give the world the middle finger and watch as they give me one right back, because at least that means they’re all watching.

I need energy, anthemic and pulsing, and spilled drinks that run deep like bloodstains.

I need raw passion and all the bullshit that comes along with it, the blaring synths and blown-out speakers, the nights spent alone thinking about searching for the light when now I’m spending nights breaking them.

I need the purest kind of love, melodic, electric, and when I get to that stage and hit the kick drum, I’ll know I’m right where I need to be.

I need those who taught me to run from myself that I’m not running anymore.


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