every day i die a little more inside.
every day i smile with breathless laughter
as i watch all the little pieces
spiral down the drain,
with my dreams mixed somewhere in.

every day, i ask myself if this is the last time
that i’ll kill myself, even though
i can already answer that question.

(every day, i fade away—
and maybe one day, i’ll be
beautiful.)

in moments like this, i realize: if not for my writing, i would have nothing.