I just can't think anymore.
The poetry I used to love to write stopped flowing.
One of my few outlets has abandoned me.
I had my Rhyme and my Reason,
But now I have neither....
I have my old hospital bracelet in my hand.
It's practically an antique at this point.
Only the last few letters of my name haven't faded,
Along with the dreadful name of my poison.

Box cutters, box cutters box cutters.

Constantly in my possession.
I would think it ironic if I were to die by the blade my work provided me.
Such a sign of hope, an era of living out of financial hardship while attending school.
But still....such a temptation.
In the end it is kind of funny though.
Everything is just a laughing matter in the end....

Words, words, words, words.
Nothing hurts more than those dreadful things right now.
Runner up is being physically touched.
Another ironic thing.
All I ever wanted was to be held when I was younger,
Now all I want is to be left out of physical contact with anyone.
It opens the flood gates.
It hurts. All it does it hurt.
Al they ever do is hurt.

Be myself?
I've trained myself for a long time to do the opposite.
I would carry a knife on me at all times.
I would kick and spit on my boyfriends.
I broke an ex's nose once...
There was no allowance for having friends that were girls.
Kick and scream, threaten, kick and scream,
Until all their friends were gone.
Physical fights were a daily thing,
The funny thing is....
I only feel that type of rage with the guys I fall in love with.
Damn my head.
Good for nothing, good for nothing, good for nothing.
I don't think anyone wants a girlfriend who will slap or punch them for no reason.
It's just impulsive, and although I've trained myself, not to do it,
The feelings remain the same.

It's disgusting how honest I am being.
It's disgusting how I want them to hit me so I can hit them back...