forget now how many must die.

there's a house in my heart. a ghost-house. at three in the dark inky morning, there is alcohol weighing low in my body, fire thrumming through my mind. someone today told me i was self centered and always had been. a ghost-house. dusty, empty, haunted.

derelict.

because i couldn't get things right, no matter how hard i tried. so i told you all stories. lies. fables. in triplicate, to ram the point home. and then i ran you out of my house, out of my heart, out into the cold. i figured you'd have more fun out there, you'd find god, or at the very least a cheaper way of living.