I wish I were crazy so they would lock me up and let me sleep. Peaceful quiet clinical hospital wards, sterilized corridors. White sheets. All the vending machine coffee I could ever want. Three times a day I would take pills that would make me happy.
I want to be happy.
I want to be happy.

I can't remember anymore. No, I do.
I remember hands like blades, cutting, cutting, cutting.
The clarity cuts through my skin.
These crimson stains; so pretty, so obscene. Like our deep, dark secret.

I am drowsy and I am drowning in my memories. I can't run and I can't hide. I watch the world spin madly on through half-lidded eyes. I shake. I bite my chapped lips.
It's not enough.
It's never going to be enough.

Every night, I whisper, "Someday, someday, I wouldn't take this anymore. Someday, I' ll run away."

The truth is, I want this pathetic thing they call a life to be over.
Roll over and twitch like a dead pigeon, with glassed-out eyes watching the skies. Waiting, waiting to hit the ground. Because I always hit the ground. And it does hurts.

I am not crazy. The worst of all this is that i am not crazy. Not even drunk.
Just self-destructive. Just fucking everything-destructive, that's all.

Dear Jesus, I'm scared. Of course, I'm scared.