depression was the inside of a winter scarf, all hot with breathing and uncomfortable as your fever bed, the tucked sheets strapping you down like a straight jacket, a bike chain, i turned myself into a whipping post.
because cutting was the only thing i was ever really good at
everyone needs to feel good at something. we were caverns, we were ravines
and for the first time in our lives we felt ageless and pointless and important. the carriers, the guardians of the world's misery with secrets up our sleeves- we felt important. an armless statue, a vacant ear, they could have painted my scratched up body hung it in the Met, called it a master piece. the closer we got to death the more alive we felt.
so we sleep for eons, we write our fingers raw, we do anything to forget that when we were bleeding