Your Blood is My Favorite Piece Of Art

Gay shit I wrote when I was 15
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The slanted ceiling of my bedroom is unfinished and bare. I relate to my ceiling. The tainted and tattered frame of my body is unfinished and raw. It's cold and wrong. I feel disconnected, the person that speaks is not me. I don't exist, not in this world, but perhaps another. A perfect world where is everything is as it should. Often I wonder what it's like to look at yourself and not want to smash the mirror then slit your throat with the shards. It gets so bad I think I'll bash my head into the pavement. I wish to feel the burning sensation as water slowly fills my lungs, I want to stand atop the tallest building and fall. I daydream about the cold air whisking through my fingers, watching the stary night sky and closing my eyes right before I hit the ground, a small smile on my twisted face.