every rose has its thorn

do you think, in the dead of night, that you're most vulnerable at your safest? that the walls that keep you safe will one day crumble around you, revealing termites and rats and mold and all the ugly things you never wanted to see? and of course, it isn't the fault of the rat that it must eat and breed, no fault of the mold's that its spores are fatal to human consumption... it's only the fault of a god that never served anyone. it's the fault of the lie that was sold to you as faith and love and belief. it's the fault of the altar boy if nobody heard his screams. it's the fault of the altar boy if the things he takes to keep himself sane are poison. it's the fault of the ALTAR BOY if thoughtcrime keeps him safe from his own tortured memories.

and i assure you, dear... we all have a hell.