Part I Dressed in this hoody
I curled myself under the blankets
Don't want to hear the noise around me
Saying to get up
What if one day my greedy hair
And starving stomach
Turn to real depression
What if Im lying to myself about it
But I might end up believing them next year
Is this real.
Did I do that to myself.
Oh why
Can't you respond
Act like you care, God!
Don't leave his bed
But I have to pretend
Im not really hiding
So that I'll never believe these fake emotions
Is it too late the remove the persona
What persona?
Which one?
Don't know if I'm evil or good
What I feel... believe to be truth
Whispering that I know, deep inside my chest
But my chest burns .
With everything.
I DON'T KNOW
(After I cut myself for the first time)
Part II But even more, triumphant is it;
To turn from running your finger over the sharp saw.
Turn from the basement... unbled;
Than it is to cut myself.
Arms comforting my chest... a sobbing from somewhere.
Rededicated to Him; to help them.
A bit more knowledge, by my own doing.
Better is to turn from the saw, more healing, that to bleed.
Triumph doesn't need pain.
Pain needs triumph.
Thank you for answering that
last breath. I think.
Love you. But I know you love me.
How?
Im good for now. I understand. Okay. Okay. Goodbye >3
(An hour after the first time cutting myself)
Part III I'm over the cutting-myself-thing I think.
Almost.
Im good.
But maybe I'll sneak down to the basement for one more cut.
I have to see me R E A L L Y bleed.
G*d... PLEASE HELP ME!
(My life recently)
PART IV Why does he pain on my wrist feel good.
Why, my starving stomach, tell me how I feel.
Why are my fingers wet.
And brain confused.
Body, wanting.
Why am I like this.
Can You help me escape
(Craving suicide, depression, sex, masturbation... so much more//Reflection// When my online friends killer themselves// When I haven't slept or eaten)
PART V I feel like such a sinner.
Thought I crave such things.
Am I really depressed? Sad? Wanting all this... but I have other sides.
Demon and angle.
Spring and winter.
Fire and ice.
Just when I feel so close to you, I fucking create a shit storm for myself.
But I'm crying... I DONT WANT TO SWEAR.
I'm trying to understand everything that's happening to me in this whirling wind!
Haven't slept in over thirty-six hours... haven't eaten for a week.
Who am I? Why is all this happening to me? Why am I doing this to myself?
I feel Your comfort when we talk; why don't You answer.
My only answer is the songs of dead people.
Abandoned accounts of suicide victims.... my age. My world.
Desperate prayers.
Music is 'Empty Arena Effect'
And bring skin.
But I still want more.
And yet, I want you.
PART VI
No way.
No way.
No way out.
Little pieces of me disappear every day...
Being eaten alive.
Can't rescue myself.
So DO I truly want out?
YOU ARE READING
Esoteric Life (mugshots)
Short Storyes.o.ter.ic intended for or likely to be understood by only a small number of people with a specialized knowledge or interest.
