Diagnosis

My name is my own, no one else’s. One personality, one name, I promise you. One name, but six personalities. One body, many intentions, and each different thought ripping and tearing at the seam. One stray thought and my mind unravels itself like an old cotton sweater. Shit green and baby blue, the one you’ll stop wearing once your diseased grandmother passes away. And they call me normal…

Sick, Twisted killer of the mind, normal except for the thoughts. My six personalities are nothing to me. To us. Nothing but silence, no voices, and no bodies under the floorboards in the basement.

Suicide, commit to something in your life, a bullet

through the brain, a knife across the wrists. Do it,

kill yourself… nobody will miss you…

After the rapes we committed, we left their half naked bodies wrapped in plastic sheets. No longer people but appendages.

One after the other, meat cleaver through bone, screaming at yourself to stop, but which one am I really? It’s hard to tell anymore…

Who the FUCK AM I?

Blood down the kitchen sink, a lock of hair clipped to the back of their pictures. Red stains running over the edge of the bathtub from where we silenced them. They deserved it…

I’m fine, but am I really? Who am I?

Schizophrenia is cancer, once it’s known nobody will ever look at you the same.

I haven’t been the same since my daughter found the pills… she deserved to die.

Young and screaming, “Daddy… please… let me keep my other had daddy…”

Louder and Louder

I have to shut her up!

Screaming with a gag in her mouth, whimpering. The smell of stale urine and the copper smell of blood, by now the bodies have begun to rot downstairs.

Fight for your sanity, tell them the rest, end it all… live forever.

Sacrifice is a corpse, useless and lifeless, scarring you forever.

The whimpering, it’s stopped. No more crying, no more life.

Puddle of blood, choked on her own vomit, mixed together on the floor.

This picture, forever. But what is forever?

Suicide is pain medication, give it to me now…