Morphine

The percent of my body isn't at one hundred anymore. I walk this earth as others, yet I realize I was born different. Memories of the past still haunt me as if I was Ebenezer Scrooge. Late night worships of the one thing that kept me sane in this deranged world, is the only thing burning the inside of my heart. You sit there with a blank face watching me digest you to aid the pain I struggle with every day. Characteristics are very exotic; they adapt to the things around them, and that sometimes isn't always perfect. As I consume the rest of your cold hearted body; I collapse with a image in my head of a white rose; the symbol of hope. Now as I rest in my new home; and I hear the tears fall from family and friends, I adjust to the environment of being just another teenager who committed suicide.