poems by nick

addicting

its addicting.

im used to the process of it all.

ill feel useless

and gross

and ugly

and not worth anything.

I remember suicide is an option.

no, 

suicide is for pussies.

right?

I go to the bathroom,

grab the of blades ive collected.

from broken sharpeners,

razors,

all of it. 

pull up my shorts,

pull out the razors,

inspecting each blade.

which is the lucky one?

I crave away the pain,

one by one,

I get creative with it,

layering more cuts 

on old cuts.

I finish,

I breath,

and I go on with my day.

the cycle continues,

every day,

all the time,

its fine.

its just addicting,

right?