Onew-Oppa and I wrote a collab together! Mine is the bolded text. I swear he writes ic. ic people!
 

Fairy Tales Are Only Ugly As The Inks Makes It Out To Be

Bold: Me
Italics: Dan

Do you know that we are made of ugly things? We are like broken pieces of a vase; all glued together to form one magnificent, ugly vase; and the glue is only the beginning of the process. Inside us is a hollow space that holds the promises and hopes that consume us, and as unfortunate as we are to be led astray by those same fantasies that build the core of our structure, they are what lead us to our choices. They make us, fill us up so that we don’t feel like that spare part, collecting dust on the shelf of life and withering away; out of sight, out of mind.
Forgive me that I left you hollow, but I only did it because I needed a place to stay and live in. You are my tomorrow, just as you are my yesterday, and I only want you to be so ugly so nobody else but I will ever want you; and I only let you go astray because nobody else is allowed to break you but I.

If I hurt you, it only means I love you; but you knew that right? You are the books collecting dust at the shelves; I’m sorry, the cleaning lady was late today. It’s just she’s far too busy you see, sweeping up the shattered remnants of all my other previous vases, she’s too busy incinerating the forgotten and torn pages of the old books I owned. You’ll join them one day, but for now I’ll protect you and cherish you. 
I don’t need protection, especially from a spineless book. I took your spine so I could turn them into an instrument. What’s a book without words anyway? You are nothing but words, you have no lyrics to sing to me you have to rhythm to dance with me. So I decided to take apart your fairy tale. I use your ribs with ash, smoke sings better than you. Am I so precious now? I locked you in Grimm’s Fairy Tale Land, I’m sorry there’s no prince charming to save a prince. However, maybe a dragon could treat me like a princess, but I always enjoyed wine and rubies better. 
 
I went to the supermarket today you know? I looked on the shelves at all these products and felt cold. I faced the mindless mainstream existence that infects me and thousands of others around me and felt nothing. I figured nothing mattered really, because whether or not I wanted to be the way I am, there was nothing that could be changed. We’re stuck in ruts you know, and only the brave break out to persue a world out there unknown to us all. Have you noticed, they dont survive those people? They come down, burning in flames as society consumes them again, and it’s only when they’re choking on the ash provided by our governments and the 70p own brand soups that all look that same, and taste the same and stain your precious ceramic bowls in the same ways, that they realize…trying to escape was a futile mission. It’s an example; we’re programmed to fail more than we are to succeed. 
idiosyncrasies only exist if people do. We born to play mice and men but instead we die along with the ruins. I bet you’re pretty happy now, you used to sit at my shelf collecting dust now you’re collecting memories. Paper cuts can tear down cities. Do you moan with desire knowing you stained my life hood as if ink blots or do you groan with displeasure knowing you’re only rickety as the parchment? We are programmed to fail because we do not know the hymns to screech or the massive, maddening meldonic tones of the people. However, why should you care? Aren’t you just a book on the shelf? Who keeps on echoing for me to come back. 

We break hymens more then we break people; more than we stain parchments with rubies and emerald more than ink; you stole it all anyway
Mrs Jones killed her husband today. It caused a bit of a stir you see, because no one expected it of good old Mrs Jones. But she did, she baked a pie and put poison amongst its pastry particles and when Mr Jones, after a long hard day on the grind, tucked into that delicious flakey treat, his heart all but popped inside his chest. They carted Mrs Jones off in a white van and told her to ‘Keep quiet’. She didn’t make a sound. I’m still looking at the soup I bought. Did I make the right choice? I wander, is this what Mrs Jones was thinking when she substituted salt for arsenic? Or is Mrs Jones just stark raving nutty? I think it’s the latter, at least I hope. Because I dont want to turn out like Mrs Jones. Just as much as I don’t want to turn out to be just a book on a shelf. Oh this sad existence.
Mrs. Jones was just a frigid who believed in corsets and not bras; arsenic is long overdue, Cyanide is more prettier. Ugly people fascinate me, which is why I love them, which is why I picked you. For you are the ugliest of them all, a book in a supermarket, knowledge in a world of flesh. I only tell ugly people to cut their ligaments off because I too want to be as ugly as the spit from their mouths. Thy spine is thou book, thy ink is thou blood, thy body is thou parchment but you are nothing but a book who collected dust. Cyndie is prettier, but doesn’t do the job very well. 

However, you want to know something Mr. Old Book? 
I love you. I really do. Theres a section of my heart that loves you so intensely that its sickening, maddening. I dont want to see you in the hands of another because it hurts so much and then I end up hating you for making me feel so stupid and in love with you. I want to be normal for you sometimes, and it hurts because I know that the only way for us to be together is for me to change and then I hate you more and I want to scream why dont you love me for me the way I am?! I’ve got to catch my breath, you’re it out of me and thats both the best and worst feeling in this pathetic world. Can I love you Mr. Book? Can I kiss you when it’s cold and hope for the best? Can’t we just be vases and live with our hopes and passions and dreams tucked away in the empty space inside of us? Or do I have to face reality and realize…thats not possible? 
However, We’re like broken pieces glued into a vase. An ugly, magnificent vase just as those libertine hearts swallows morals just as those who pleases ; and I do hope I pleased you. The Cyanide taste prettier than the arsenic. You were never good for me, all I did was tear at your rib cages, and made wings out of them. I wear your words better than you ever could. 

Mr. Book tell me, what does l-o-v-e have to do with madness?
Both are consuming. Both are the feelings and actions that weaken us. We do anything when we’re mad and fly without inhibitions, and when we’re in love theres no difference. I’m madly in love and love has made me mad, and I’m sure somewhere, in some other book, tucked away in a creased page I’ll find a meaningful quote from some dead lover that will tell me that being mad and in love are the best feelings…but I’m sure a person who quoted like that probably let love kill them. I’ll quote one day, but I wont die from love. I’m invincible. Do you know that Mr. Book? I’m an anti-superhero. Love is kryptonite. So keep it away from me. That’s why you die in the end, burn on the pile of old lovers, old pages that once filled my life. It’s only a matter of time.

We’re only as pretty as death makes us out to be. Marquis De Sade has fangs, and he chewed apart politics and moralities as his daily meals. Love has fangs, that’s why it chews apart ugly people. People like me. People like you. People like us.