FOUR. (t.w.)

453 31 5
                                    

B.C.



"Fucking stupid. You can't even write lyrics properly." I said to myself, angrily
letting tears fall down.

"Christopher, you should get that sharp paper cutter on your desk" "why?"

If anybody saw me talking to myself right now, they'd assume i'm crazy.

"Try and slide it over your palm, get a feel of it." Reluctantly, I scoot over to the pen holders and grab the cutter mindlessly.

" Good. Now, slide it over your palm." Shakily, i slide open the cutter, breathing in and out unsteadily. "Won't it hurt?"
"Yes, but only for a little bit. Now hurry up and do it. Don't be a disgrace to your own mind."

Grazing the cutter onto my palm, I hold my breath a little as blood starts dripping from the small wound. It hurt, but strangely enough felt comforting.



I can get used to this.

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