Influenza

Influenza, the voice in my head, the sickness of my mind, disguised...

A fae with a knack for turning people against themselves, this dragon should have been born within Plague. Small she may be, but she sickens those she speaks to. Hushed tones and narrowed eyes as she cuts deep with words you wish she hadn't dared to speak, and yet everyone ignores her when she's silent. She is like her namesake; silent but disgusting and harmful. Though small she may be, be wary.

NOTE: The following writings are written by me and are said by Influenza

The sickening ichor coats your throat and yet you gulp it down greedily like the monster you are, slurping the carbonated filth like it's more important than air. You filthy monster, tapping away at your keyboard and wasting away on games and watching videos you'll never need. Why do we even bother with you? You spill yourself to the people you care about but it all ends up the same. They come, they love, they leave, and you die again. You never ******* learn. Maybe if you looked at the scars you've made. No, not those physical ones, the ones you've made with your self-inflicted words of hatred and disgust. There, those scars are what we speak of. The split fingertips dripping with sludge that doesn't come close to resembling the blood that once flowed. The scars that burrow across your knuckles and wrists and fingers, making indiscernible rubbish that only a beast could read. It screams, reminding you of what it says. Beast, ****, monster, filthy, trash, imbecile, it's all the same to you now. Just useless droll, isn't it? You ******* disgust us with your half dead eyes seeing that which you shouldn't. You with your lips mouthing silent pleas of fatigue and sickness but you ignore yourself. You are nothing, and you are the only one who sees it. How disgusting that you won't even try to see the truth. Not fun now, is it?


The glare of the screen reflecting in your eyes speak volumes. It speaks of windswept thoughts and dark circles as your undead eyes roam the web. It speaks of stiff fingers hitting the keyboard in dull, clicking thuds and an aching, hunched back. It speaks of games and stories and videos but you speak not a word, and yet still we can red you like the notes you write in the night. How long has it been since sleep came to you like a shakespearean lover, embracing you and ravishing you like you so deserve? How long since you've tasted the ambrosia of a dream, so silently pleasing you with visions your screen could never give? How long since the dull pain of society had become but a distant memory as you lay in blissful ignorance among thick, warm comforters and downy pillows? You've since forgotten such a luxury and instead turned to artificial liveliness through toxic cans of radioactive vitamins and sweeteners. Go then to your saccharine ichor and your lifeless light. Go then like a moth to flame, and become what you feared as a child. Become mindless and empty and lose yourself to what little control you could have had. Lose everything, and yet be happy in yourself, for if you cease to exist you have no one to blame but yourself.