very cringe. many bad.
i'm a selfish, young child crying over lost toys,
if i ever got them back i'm sure i'd totally destroy
because there's some fatal disease that inhabits my head,
it spreads all its venom within the skin that i shed.
it keeps itself fed from the smoke that i breathe,
it plays with the joy of the hopefully naive.
i'm destine for disappointments and chalk outlines
because if i succumb to it, i'll die a thousand times.
i'm always picking at scabs and wounds i have made.
i'm always running from people and places i should've stayed.
my closet's full of skeletons, now i hide them in the walls.
i'm always bitter; seething. plunging knives right into dolls.
i've spent so many nights seeking light when there is none.
i've found a home in spite, it won't let me come undone.
i guess i expected more for the things i am owed.
i push away my friends so they are safe when i explode.
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