A quick runoff

The knife slips in. In and thin. The mirror reflects the bliss you feel and shows you the physical beauty that harbors the storm inside you. You turn and look at me. Those eyes. They're dilated. You look up at me. An unforgettable look. Your black makeup has mixed with your tears to create a new form. Though your screams are real and I'm listening, I'm thinking about the symbolism of the new form. Tears are your sadness and the makeup is the hate. The terrible truth is that you love it. You love and live inside the hate. I don't, which, maybe unconsciously, is why you have chosen me to reveal yourself to.

You're no secret to me anymore. I believed you were my sunshine, but now you're weak. I have been misled. 

Hate fills you up and you continue to spit it out at me. I'm not holding back a feeling that I don't have. Maybe, if I felt bad, I could somehow live in a sort of solace with you. Your world of inner hatred could become ours. Unfortunately though, I know I'm not really helping you, but enabling you.

You're laying down now, visibly uncomfortable. You just screamed at me not to look at you. Screaming at me because you think I believe you to be a freak. I don't believe you're a freak. I'm comfortable with how I am and I am here to help you.

For so long, I thought you were just as freaky as me. It was all a game unfortunately. All the sex and drugs in the world could not change this game. A game based almost entirely on your feelings. 

You continue to scream and cry and I start thinking about my friends and their girlfriends, all of whom you have seen. These friends of mine continue to fight with their girls that have similar problems to yours, but you don't really know any of the girls. Their real problems are ridiculously similar to yours, but you'd never know because of how dishonest and inwardly hateful you are towards them. Your feelings are like a special fucked up power you think is distinct to you, but, in actuality, it's what makes you weak and isolates you from everyone else.