011

I can't do it.

010

Trouble, trouble, trouble, trouble.

You're nothing but trouble.

009

Can you smell the blood on my fingers?
On my painstakingly smoothened hair?

See the clear fluids that ooze from every wound?
Feel the disgust and the neverending pain?

Would you understand the desperation that
shoves me headfirst into doing it over and over again?

five minutes,

half an hour,

two hours,

four hours,

brown blood caked on fingertips
and the smell, oh god the smell-

And to rinse and repeat, every single day?

What could you know?

008

We forget the things that we should remember and remember the things we should forget.
A lot more vague, a lot less real.

007

People are trying to help me stop, but I'm pushing them away.
Anger at their interruption of my quest for perfection.
Even if I know it's destruction. Even if I know I'd regret it later on.
I really don't know what I want, do I?

006

Moments when I wake up shaking and so afraid of everything,
of myself and the hurt I'm going to keep doing to myself.
The crippling pain on my face, the skin screaming in protest.
And mostly of everyone else and how I can even act around them,
having to pretend to be fine.

005

People aren't psychics. They won't know why you sing unless you tell them.
Sure - guessing makes it mysterious. But is that what you truly want?
I can't tell people who I am when I don't even know myself.