I never asked you to
Visit me tonight.
[goodbye, cruel world.]

I'm sick of falling victim to these thoughts, the needs and wants I feel. My skin itches for the heavy kiss of metal, such a familiar memory. But it's the itch I can't scratch.
.
[Any spirit left in me is fading fast.]

During the nights I spend alone, longing morphs into convulsions and desperate tears. I get the feeling of being broken all over again. The void inside my chest cracks and falls; over and over and over. (I didn't know nothing could break.) It's like the contents of my chest are replaced every time I break them. Why can't I keep myself whole?
.
[Could you throw another stone to ease my pain?]

Warm nights only help me to realize how much colder I am. My skin is covered in frost, when I exhale my breaths are puffs of cold air. Sometimes I enjoy breathing frost-patterns onto the glass of my window and watching it melt in the summer heat. I like knowing that the things I can do are reversible. Everything changes; everything dies.
.
[And if I can rise above this, I'll be safe.]

Sickness is quite becoming of me. It fills my veins with toxins and shivers, but it thickens my blood, makes it run hot. Sometimes, I see white instead of black. Like my blood is running so fast through my veins that my skin is like pavement in the sun, my blood like lava, and all my eyes can see is the white hot heat of my own body betraying me.
.
[I don't believe in me.]

My eyes see the blade's & needle's footprints trailing down my arms, settling at my wrists. I remember the way it looked, the blade dancing in tiny puddles of blood. I traced the veins and hoped the scars would hide them when they healed. I don't want to be reminded they still exist. I begged the blade to hide them from me, so I wouldn't see them again. They're so tempting.
.
[Should I grow another shell and not forgive?]