Every day, I feel like a piece of shit

I wanna crawl out of my skin and take a hit

of some drug that'll kill this pain,

this disease that makes every day the same.

Yeah,

starve, puke, cry

no one's in as deep a rut as I

I can scream until I'm raw and hoarse

but the world's gone deaf, and I'm

mute of course.

And even if they hear, what's the use?

I'm as resistant to help as I resist my muse

I got some shitty poems where the rhyme scheme's loose

I could have a life to live, but I've gotta choose:

Between relapse and recovery, love and hate

I got all these hard choices upon my plate.

But in the end, what does it matter?

How long does it take, how much can I stand

before my sanity

shatters?

Break.

That's it.

I gotta persevere either way,

whether I succumb or I beat this shit.

I can scratch at my skin but I'll never win

this war in my head that'll do me in

It's only instant gratification and temporary help

I'll never be fixed if I can't fix myself.

But do I want to be fixed?

What the fuck?
Do I want to get better or are my parents out of luck?

They've lost their daughter already,

they've lost their minds.

And I've lost every shred of myself that I've left behind.

This is the thanks I give,

for the love and the caring;

but I can't help but feel as if

they're always staring.

Staring at me, my eating, my clothes;

listening to my words, my footsteps

but no one knows.

No one knows the pain I'm in

when I'm up at four in the morning

puking out my guts because it's all I know

to handle the feeling of having no place to go.

There's blood on my hands, yeah,

my own.

I'm killing myself slowly,

I'm dying alone.