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Why is the floor suddenly made out of little bits of him, and her and them and why is it so bad to step on that bit: makes me SICK to my inner bits,makes me shake sweat and hate.
Wasn’t the first time.
The voices, they are silent yetSomehow my very hurting headConvinces me that I am dead.So where am I?“Then let us die,Don’t say goodbye:Their panicked cryAnd asking whyWill justify
The fingers that I type withand the eyes with which you readare both, just now, quite filled with life - of that, we are agreed?
Don’t tell me that you know exactly what went through my head. ‘Cause I won’t tell you “toughen up, I’m already dead!” Don’t tell me who I did it for. With that you're never gonna score
They heard my muffled crying and told me it would be alright. They missed me when I hid away but left me to my dark repreive.
Jump, fall, land, splat.Who ever said that? Not the twisted face he sees,though it drove him to his knees. Not the voices in the dark,though they surely made their mark.
“Don’t call me ‘precious.’ Don’t be fictitious with me. Don’t be the one to bite your thumb when I’m the one already done before everyone.
So many lines. So many, Different kinds of pain that write themselves Under different names: Necessity, shame, another I can’t explain. And still more, more still and, Is this some kind of game?
It started off as an escape An honest distraction, Just to reshape The always-constant never-ending never-ceasing never-stopping Reaction in my body tensing-up-ing heart-a-pounding hard-to-breathe-ing
my friend, Monster.you know his name.you might’ve used it as a joke;trying to take a poke,or ease the yokeof the dysfunctionalitythat comes with the originalityor, some might say, ‘superficiality’
MY NAME IS: OCD walk it wrong and they will die, wait until it's safe to cry. draw the crimson from your arm, maybe they'll stay safe from harm. MY NAME IS: HOMELESSNESS