My flesh, a torn and ugly slab of meat with crimson tendrils,
No matter how many times I cut I cannot find a cure, nor do I want to,
I feed myself these lies to secure another stitch, that's how I want to live,
You claim it is weakness, but its actuality is nothing more than a miracle,
I am not scared or yearning for the vise of attention, rather want to see how far I can really go,
The true horror of life is how you can take something so precious and twist it into the torturous device that is mutilation, a self-loathing sympathy drawn into puzzle pieces that have yet to fit together and probably won't fit together,
The world claims it is cowardly, and yet, it is the cowards who claim this propaganda. I could of been helped, but no, you set aside your ignorance and taunted me, bruised my ego with your threats of " doing it", as you so politely put it, waving your priceless, pure moments to calm the beast writhing within me,
Why stop what I cannot help? It fuels me to the point I grow numb. Ah, a numbnesss- the perfect rydalin for this chaotic storm I call my life. I guess that's the true secret to this whole theatrical emotion, a dramatizational occurence by the pity and childish mannerisms of my so-called " Peers",
They're not peers, but monsters who yearn to feast upon my very essence, drink from the goblet that is my soul and greedily laugh as it slithers from their gaping toothed maw. Funny how they call you a weakling, and yet, it takes more strength then they could ever fathom......
I celebrate my life so you could live your's, a party where the wine tastes like copper and my emotions are the appetizers. Feast on my fellow men and never look back to in your shallow thoughts to rescue me, for I need not your sacrifice or attempt.