i am crawling back to where i was to start. just going along upgrading my psychological illness for a trendier one. just give me something to feel - or give me a reason for what i feel. what's wrong? nothing, THAT is what's wrong. there's nothing inside, there's nothing scratched out in ink on this paper. the same four archetypes are drawn out in front of me. i travel the same path. i will never fucking change - and it kills me. i will be this way forever. i will die a rotting, wrenching, mess of a girl. a little crazy girl with dreadful hair, sharp ribs and evident hip bones loves you with all of her fractured, broken and empty heart. fill her up. i am fucking insane and only becoming more so. it won't be long til i'll belong laid out on a stretcher being pumped full of risperdal - in shackles. and i'll laugh at them all, "you want to fix me? goodfuckingluck. there's nothing left in here," go move some furniture. it has become clear that the drugs were the only thing holding me together.