These tears I'm holding back start to break out. My eyes burn, my muscles and flesh are feeling rather twisted and I'm physically sick from the things I'm thinking. And so, to make progress and to get somewhere, I need to feel a bit of finality. The cuts sting, and its terribly hard to go thru with it, but there seems no other alternative. I would taste the blood if my senses would allow me, but this pain is nearly enough because I believe it will heal. I lie here as this crimson dries but my insides remain twisted. Something must break thru this nothing, reach my bloody hands out but there is no magic in these pills. The ability to forget what I want to forget and to move on gently to the emptiness ahead. If I'm still here in the morning, I've got to wash this and I've got to try to forget. Just act normal and I've got to evade their notice because things might change if they really understood. If I can build my false self this way and maintain this facade, you can only make yourself on the outside, tho you cannot fix the inner. The outside mocks the inside and you haven't slept in days, the tears that finally come sting so badly, your stomach feels so acidic and the toilet is your only friend. The sharpened piece of metal and its effects and the bottle marked "LETHAL" and the empty sleep ahead, it all sounds so cliche, but what doesn't these days? You've listened to that song on repeat for hours on end and if you keep pulling like that, its only going to hurt later. Won't you please try to forget this because you really need a rest from your own games that you like to play with yourself. Isn't this such a lovely thing? I cannot wait until I have vanished and have forgotten it isn't that hard to forget things for a minute. Maybe instead to advance, you could bury yourself in that book or this album or maybe even that one movie. Pure escapism may prove useful for more reasons to need to escape, and if you keep doing this, it'll never end, no matter how you think it might. Perhaps I could find another and make them feel this pure pain I am sure I could produce, and make them end and let them suffer. But it couldn't be, you are far too selfish and the pain must stay here, within me. This pain makes your mouth water and your senses heighten and you've never felt better than with your face soaked in bile or your arms laced with scars and a certain medicational oblivion exclusive to those like me.