Untitled 02If you meet your eyes to my page, you are no longer faced with a simple piece of parchment, but are seeing the fading eyes of my dying soul. If I am dead, so be it. My soul thrives on fleeing the hell of my last body. And how I wish to write happy thoughts as I realize the anguish of my words, but I am not speaking with my tongue. This tongue does not belong to me, but the cut tongue of the soul. I am not writing for the ill of others or better. I write with the last words the soul is happy to speak and its black words frighten me. My heart aches at the thought it has blessed me with this past month.I wish to be reborn and no longer be lost in my mind and its shell. Long have I desired for the social freedoms of a man. The power of his words and body. Seldom am I allowed to leave the domestics without chaperone - no matter my intellect and mature mind. In a society where I am believed to be weak, I am made weak. My skin becomes thin, my eyes see only darkness, and my heart grows soft.