Artistic Pain

Dear Diary, (and my lovely stranger) I will be home late tonight. There will be blood on my cape and the dishes will have to wait another night. The main water pipe burst a few days ago and we are just now starting to see the problems that causes in a tiny rented house with wood floors and already screwed up plumbing. Dear Diary, my oldest friend, love that turned to lust and longing that turned to misunderstanding, today was not good. I will be home late and dinner will not be made for me or for the shadows residing between my bed and the window. All this breaking and pain all this emptiness and loneliness is  beginning to eat away at my soul at my inspiration, at my already destroyed heart (the only gift I would ever be able to give you, besides my scarred body and failed attempts at inking out these tangled thoughts of you, of us, of the me I wish I was.) Dear Diary, my dear sweet book of lines, as I don't expect you to understand this I still require your excellent listening skills. Especially today when I met a stranger all too perfect, a boy who thinks like me (in odd manors of the world) but in such dark forms of the truth. And he reminds me of the people I used to know before we fought and they grew up to forget me. He is like you in the way he cares without caring, the way robots do before they are finished being programmed. Dear Diary, my beautiful existence in a not so beautiful place, I love you for the effort you give absorbing this crimson ink night after night. I hate you for not being able to council me to any avail. I crave you in the most unusual of ways because in doing so it makes me feel like something matters like I matter when its so much more than clear that I am a single blip in an endless infinity that will never even know that I existed in the first place. Dear Diary, I know you cannot read these words the way random passers by will, but I think I love you all the more for that and loathe them all the same because they don't understand what I am trying so fucking hard to say. Dear Diary, I will  be home late tonight, There will be blood on my cape and the dishes will have to wait another night because there is only so much saving lousy superhero wanna bes like me can do in a single day.

Good night my dearest Diary.