[Nullia]

My dear, my child, my sweet little

butterfly.

Everything is going to be alright.





On the day of our twentieth birthday,

'twas the day we watched you die.

Passing away quietly, your hand in mine.

What words do we hear whispered from your

dry, flaking lips

but the promise that

everything will be alright.

Mother, 'o mother dearest

—dearest to me, to our heart—

why are you

a liar?

Each day that passes,

since the one where you left us,

it gets harder,

to control me.

This soul within your soul,

this very concept of me.

We have watched

thousands die.

We have stood

over a thousand graves.

Every single person,

has left you behind.

No one will be here for you.

No one will mourn you.

We have been,

and always will be,

each other's sole company.

Within you, there is a vile, bloody hate.

A desire to watch the world burn.

I bleed, I cry, I kill my frail little body just to make a difference,

just to be something more than an object to someone else.

I open our heart,

desperate for the approval of another.

And again, and again,

do we feel it ripped to shreds.

I reach out,

into that which I cannot know.

You feel a hand in yours,

holding it tight.

I feel it slip,

still stunned by the touch.

And we watch it fall away,

into the abyss.

Father, 'o Father dearest,

why must we suffer so?

Why are we the only ones left?

when will our breath finally end?

Eight years past,

this body should have withered.

It has only been a nuisance.

So why does your light not fade?

Leave us be.

Let us die.

At least in the lifestream,

I can find the people that cared.

So do you clutch to your chest,

and realize what I have told you all along.

My dear, my self, my sweet little butterfly.

There is no one in this world for you,

but me

and me alone.

I am tired of these

self-imposed limitations.

The strings have long since come undone.

We writhe on the floor,

in this broken prison of flesh.

Human-shaped trash,

still breathes my air.

The people that never cared for me,

still die by the dozen.

Soul of my soul,

The very concept of me.

Let us show them

what martyrdom looks like.

What it is to

burn.