I wish I could express the way the pain
Is what I want. I know you doubt it, but
I do not want attention when I cut.
I do it for myself, so I can gain
A bit of what I used to feel again.
See, I feel dead. I feel it in my gut,
But how am I to live when I'm about
To fall apart? I live inside my brain,
And all the things I hate are thoughts that build
Into a monster that devours all
I want, until I'm left with only hell:
A hell I hate. It leaves me drained, weak-willed,
Alone, and I feel nothing, so I fall
Into the only way I feel alive.
