Insolent Involuntary Insomnia

Last night I revisited The Girl with the Flaxen hair and realised that I don't like it as much as I did when I was thirteen.

The pencil is a precious instrument.

Dear now just hold me tight
As we lie in bed tonight
Tell me it will all be right
As long as we are one tonight

That you've effectively killed the past
The past that hinges on one word, Lust
I'll hold you tight now if I must
And tell you Sweet, in you I trust

Dear now just hold me close
As we lay in bed, morose
The ceiling spins from overdose
Don't forget now, I need you most



(My enigma, I wish I never see
Past you, the one who screams intrigue
To keep you shrouded in mystery
Strangers, I'm afraid, we must be.)

Bleed Heart, Bleed.

The dull of my thudding heart tells me something's not quite right.
I knew I shouldn't have succumbed to the lull of the text.

All at once you see more, you hear more, you feel more. You think you understand, but really, you don't. All of the longing he speaks of, all of the loving he writes of, all of the darkness he equates himself to; it pulls you down, it drags you inside like a dog does a bone. You're helpless in his myriad of shadows.
No light, no light, we need some light in here. What shadows? There are no shadows, only smoke, and you will be engulfed in the smoke from his cigarettes.
Cut it out.
Cut It Out.
CUT IT OUT.
CUT OUT A PIECE OF ME AND
(please don't) BLEED ME TO THE BRIM
till I overflow and spill out onto the walls of this existence.

You see parts of his life flash by. You don't fancy it you say. How much more better off are you. You can't leave this.
You have effectively crawled your way into that small room in the floor and locked yourself in and thrown away the key. You're stuck. Only now you realise that you're stuck.
Stop it.
Stop It.
STOP IT I SAY BEFORE YOU ARE ENTANGLED IN HIS DECEIT.

What?
No second chances?

I'm hungry it's dinner time.