I have so much in me; so much to say.
But I haven't wanted to write, lately.
I've bleed all of the blood inside of me.
Oh, there was a lot of blood wasn't there?
And all these tearful words have started to turn into steam.
Here stands a girl clutching a knife.
There is grease on the stove, blood in the air, and angry words piled in the corners.
We are trained not to see it, not to see any of it.
But someone just ripped off my eyelids.
I just want to sleep now. A coma would be nice. Or amnesia
Anything just to get rid of these thoughts, these whispers in my head.
I want to not wake up, but I don't want to die.
I want to eat like a normal person eats, but I need to see my bones
or I'll hate myself more than I already do.
I want to cut my heart out,
and take every pill that was ever made.
I know a few things about heartache. Hell, I could write a book on it.
I have so much to do, but I can't bring myself to do any of them.
I don't want to feel any of this.