It’s not me, it’s you. Here lies my memories, in boxes and bags, dust collected on the floor where the furniture once stood.
There’ve been countless nights when I’ve hid away behind claims of sickness to cry, alone. There’ve been nights when I’ve clasped my hands to my chest, holding the razor blade like it was my scepter, begging God to take me once and for all.
My pants torn, half on, revealing my pale scratched skin to the moonlight. Am I brave now? Am I an inspiration now?