Arianna Noel

Now That You Did This, You Ask For Forgiveness. 3.5.17 (My Father's Suicide)

I'm just an author waiting for the ink to dry on the papers, for the writing to be bathed from my skin, to become embedded into my own personal flawed canvas. I'm simply delighted by the lyrics of music that touches your soul, and enjoying the sidelong glances towards the inks that hold onto my skin on my left side.I wasn't born to be somebody's muse, so don't hold your fingers against my ropes to ploy my emotions. 

I've never dreamed of allowing your hands to slip from my own, but when the words have finally dried, and the rains have washed away the feelings, staying becomes as meaningless as hiding behind something so badly faked as the curtains that hid your truest intentions.

And honesty, My hands are bathed from the bloods that stained them for years, and yours hold the noose that'll eventually hang you with. You tried to dictate, you tried to manipulate the signs to align with your wickedness, but honestly, an ending without desire belongs to you flawlessly. You deserve an endless eternity with a lonesome Devil standing at your wake, your only accompaniment to the grave you so graciously deserved. Hell can't except such deception that you yourself hide behind, and no Heaven will desire a moment to hold your hand in the greatest calling of darkness as all you ever loved crashed and burns. Love befuddles you, for your a monstrous being hidden within the flesh of a familiarity. Such daunting eyes, that hold a nature none should ever encounter, much less live behind a locked door of. I pray every night you end up alone, that Hell watched you tumble from your hierarchy while your grasping fingers find mine and you find yourself scorched and left in an endless darkness much like you sinned me into. I'll be cheering on the sidelines, watching you crawl on your knees underneath the coals of Hell, knowing you finally experience pure, unadulterated pains.