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ramble--

i logged on today promising myself i wouldn’t give in to false hope, but i feel significantly less miserable now after reading all these posts of theories on my chem, on if they’ll ever come back, conspiracy theories about the label, etc.. i just.. I PROMISED MYSELF I WOULDN’T GIVE IN TO FALSE HOPE

but this JUST ISN’T LIKE THEM
it CAN’T BE

they poured their hearts and souls out into this, into us, for twelve fucking years. i feel like there’s a real possibility that this is killing them, watching us all fall apart. that they want to say something, but can’t.

But the part that hurts the most,

I wish we could have gotten more than a paragraph.
85 words, arranged into a cold, concise, and practiced goodbye just isn't enough. It isn't right.

I wish we could have gotten a rambling bog post from Frank, like we did with Conventional Weapons, spilling over with passion and love for the fans, the music, the mission. I wish he would've told us that he loves us all, and isn't ever going to stop.

I wish we could have gotten wise words from Gerard, reassurance that we're strong enough, that we're good enough.

This hurts.

My Chemical Romance,
I never got to meet you. I never got to speak to any of you, tell you what you meant to me, and what you've done for me. I'll always regret that- my entire life- but at least I still have everything you have built for me.

I still have the family you have provided me with, the MCRmy, and the friends I have made there.

I still have the courage you have provided me with, the strength to keep on living, and a belief in myself that I never had before you..

I still have your music, telling me that I'm not alone, that I must carry on.

I still have everything I know you all

on cold blood and my imminent trip south//[filed under-poetry]

cold blooded creatures will seek out warmth,
they'll curl up in beams of lemon-yellow sunlight and lie (liars) for hours,
watching specks of dust swim in and out of their vision like drunk and dizzy fireflies.
cold blooded creatures will pack their bags and move south,
leaving behind them nothing but cigarette ash and slowly filling footprints in the snowpowder.

i am an expert on cold blooded creatures,
because the purple sloggish sludge in my hands and fingers
mottles my palms grey and white and chills your lips when you're trying to be a gentleman.

i am cold blooded, and my heart beats