Why has it come to this?
Where every fiber in my being has the same wish,
Why is it so hard to make water something I can keep my head above?
Where the most gentle push feels like the hardest of shoves,
Why do I have to try?
Where someday I will die,
Why do I feel good when I cut?
Where when I talk it feels like a punch in the gut,
Why do I put up with the pounding in my head?
Where it would be so much easier to be dead.
