what am i doing // licily

what am i doing? that's not an easy question to really answer for me at this time and place, because quite really, nothing. absolutely nothing and i don't mind that much, it's just kind of boring. why don't i talk to someone? because for one, i don't like people, and two, they particularly don't like me. playing with knives wasn't really that necessary for now, because i've done no sins to me or myself to really need to play with knives. as a kid, dad always told me that playing with knives wasn't a good thing, but i never listened to him. each time that i played with knives, the more interested i had gotten.

each time i played, each time i touched the cool hard metal knife, i figured out more wonders and joys of the pretty little thing. knives became my friend. they always creates wounds, but they always cleaned up the mess. and a dead body can't do that. i played with those knives in replace for him because i don't even know who i can trust anymore.

the knives were a friend to me, they were my tools and they made my art. they critiqued my art, they even watched me create the art and have been there every day since i started my hobby as creating the art.

crunch. my footsteps crunched against the snow as they fell weak to my touch, almost as if i were a teenage girl and the snow was a adored fan. each footstep crunched the snow, and it didn't seem familiar to not hear the thump of the heartbeat that had been driving me insane the past months and what seemed like years. as i found myself colliding with another person, i looked up, speaking my apology and showing my face for what seems like the first time in forever.

my words are strained, they're quiet and it's weird to hear my voice again. "Sorry," i wonder how good of an impression that made.