I want to die.
I’ve been looking out a window for eighteen years, dreaming about what it might feel like when those lights rise in the sky.
So I sit here
Trying not to think about the blade that I keep in my make case
I just kept one
I told everyone I threw them all out
I have made it a while without any new wounds
I should keep going
The main problem is why?
I desperately want to punish myself
For all of my mistakes
I am already going to be scarred for the rest of my life
What does it matter if I add a few more?
A few more lines to the story I have written on my body