Pointing at a bluebird and calling it azure while I call it cerulean is a difference in interpretation of what we know is blue. If you were to decree it a canary, however, I would then be obligated to call you mad.
"What do a friend group of rocks do for fun? Take erode trip!"
A woolless sheep instead of a black sheep. Serving no purpose; a waste.
Punching a mirror to smash it, to rid yourself of its reflection, only to look down and see dozens of new ones glinting back at you from the shards now in your fist.
"Some people just die unfulfilled. But I take solace in knowing... in hoping we are the minority."
I'm chronically terrible at taking care of myself, but one thing that always helps me is to think of this sadistic asshole I knew. If she could see me, would she smile? Would she grin like a Cheshire Cat at how I shake, or drool like a sick dog over my weakness? That usually motivates me to eat.
You'll cry less if you cry more.
"Don't cry. You did nothing wrong, the person who is bad is not you."
I'm going to make them see me. Even if I have to pry open their eyes to get them to do it first. They're going to perceive me until it stings, until my visage is burned into their vision. I'll make sure the underside of their eyelids are eternally stained with my afterimage. I'll be there everytime they blink; a curse: there'll be no escape from me no matter if they look or don't. They're going to see me until they recognize themselves.
You may make a friend out of the hedgehog, but you can never make softness out of a knife.
When you put a gun to your head and shoot, the bullet has to go somewhere. You think it just passes through your head and disappears? No. It always lodges someplace else.
I'm so tired of being shot in the side and expected to recover; sometimes I just want to bleed out, sometimes I just want to lay and hope the bullet will be forced out with my blood, or that I'll at least stain a nice pair of your shoes.
It's amazing my ability to twist and distort things to my own delusion. I can think of nothing but roses whilst being pricked by thorns.
Dealing the beast even one blow before it inevitably kills you is a sign that it, too, bleeds.
I am a sow and you are the butcher clutching my snouted face as you bring a bolt stunner to the index of my forehead. Tell me, when you brushed at my cheek with your gloved thumb, was it out of emotion? Or was it to relax my fatty flesh so that when you cull, cut, and serve me I won't be chewy?
I am a sow walking between gates. I've been here before and I know. I know a stunner awaits me on the other side of this tarp-- I'm not sure why they bother to hang it up anymore. I know everything but that. I keep walking... Do you think they'll remember my taste when they eat me?