from 'For Service And Devotion', by signed and idle

[wotless]

Once you know you’re in the tunnel, you become painstakingly aware of the fact there is no way out. And the dark is there. Waiting. Always waiting. It stirs in the night and ghosts hands down your spine, taunts you with whispers and hides hope in a shroud as a distant memory. The dark lures you with promises of him and you’ll give anything to surrender to your own mind and just have him once, again. The dark knows everything you wish you didn’t. Remembers all you want forgot. It is there, always waiting.

more

Street Boy made me happy. Not sunny, mellow, floating-on-a-cloud-of-bumblebees happy. But happiness so sharp it hurt. It pained and it burned and it was so intense it made me blind to everything else wrong or disappointing. I felt so much it hurt, and I thought this is what life is. I was strung up over a blade and it was pressing against my chest and I could feel it with every breath and all it would take is for me to fall or the ropes to fray and I’d be sliced clean in two. Don’t suppose many people would see that as simple happiness. It was to me.

Apathy is my lover, and every time I try to pry myself away, it grabs my wrist and hugs me just a bit too tight, like its afraid I’m really going to go, and I surrender myself to its charms again and swear I’ll never leave. Apathy presses the bottle of cheap vodka to the seal of my lips and chases the world away.

Life’s a filthy habit, dear, one I’m trying ever so hard to quit.

The scariest part of the film is never when the monster is growling and drooling and rushing towards the buxom victim: it’s the silence and darkness that surrounds before it strikes.

Till one of us wins and one of us loses. Don’t fucking care which way victory goes. It’s not the winning. It’s the fucking pain in taking part that counts.

Happiness is always better when it stings.

Sometimes I just need other people around me to allow myself to pretend that loneliness is a fucking myth. Even strangers have familiar faces when you look hard enough.

I’m out for the count without ever being in the fight.

Wrapping yourself up in another person is a bad idea...You hand over the parts of you that you think they’ll like. You gift-wrap them in nice paper and witty conversation and your best underwear and that stupid spangly ribbon that looks like Stan’s hair gone disco. And they usually look at the packaging and coo over it appreciatively. Because it’s a gift, it’s theirs to keep even when they drop you because they can’t stand the sight of your repugnant skin any more. You don’t get the good parts of you back. So you’re left with the bad parts that no one will ever want.

Affection is always a loan, repaid with interest and flesh. It kills because all too soon the person who made you happy will belong to someone else, someone new, someone who emphatically isn’t you and the pieces they took will be screwed up and tossed aside to litter memory lane.

Anyone who says it’s better to know and get hurt than hide away and never know what could’ve been is a fucking idiot. It’s never better to know. Never.

Sometimes I don’t know if I want him, or if I just want to ruin him too.

I don’t kid myself he’s perfect. I’d like to kid myself he’s mine.

People aren’t meant to be jigsaws dropped from a great height: they aren’t meant to draw people in with their nice packaging only to force them to put all the pathetic mismatched parts back together into a stupidly dissatisfying whole.

We are two flawless actors of flawlessly flawless proportions. We can convince each other of anything and believe it not at all.

Nothing keeps you warm as lies.

Stories that’re worth something because of the simple fact there’s someone there to hear them.

I’m whatever he wants whenever it suits[him].

S’fucking nothing right about handing yourself off to someone else. Shedding clothes like lost fucking defences falling without the fucking good sense or grace to ever stage a fight. Getting all the fucking wrong lines of sick skin that’re never fucking right out for someone else to see. You’ve got to act like it’s fine, fucking normal, fucking everyday mundane for someone to gawp at you, snatch with their eyes and feign cheap masks over revulsion with their cheap little eyes as they take you in, weigh you up. Think of all the many fucking ways they could’ve made you something better if you weren’t so fucking wrong, that you’re too twisted and warped around the black crackle of your destructive little stale heart to ever be fixed into something more.