Raz
Bluelighter
All your babies are in jars, and you put them on display for the world to see.
All your ideas are dead, aborted before the deformities kicked in and ruined it for everybody.
When they wander through your home and pick your children up one by one, there's a kind of detached curiosity you can see in their smirk. You're an amusement, a novelty, a step or two away from being a sideshow. Your twisted musings are their conversation pieces and you sell them easily. You sell them often.
And that's not the morbid part.
The morbid part is this:
You could have let them survive. You could have let them thrive. You could have lived with a house full of vibrancy and energy and positivity and light and happiness. You could have been happy.
But happy doesn't sell. And so you choose self-perpetuation. You choose self-pity. You choose the limitation of selling your misery to the world so you never have to starve again. And the world buys it.
Change.
All your ideas are dead, aborted before the deformities kicked in and ruined it for everybody.
When they wander through your home and pick your children up one by one, there's a kind of detached curiosity you can see in their smirk. You're an amusement, a novelty, a step or two away from being a sideshow. Your twisted musings are their conversation pieces and you sell them easily. You sell them often.
And that's not the morbid part.
The morbid part is this:
You could have let them survive. You could have let them thrive. You could have lived with a house full of vibrancy and energy and positivity and light and happiness. You could have been happy.
But happy doesn't sell. And so you choose self-perpetuation. You choose self-pity. You choose the limitation of selling your misery to the world so you never have to starve again. And the world buys it.
Change.
