Take my hand,
but be careful of the
intricately stitched wrist
attached to it.
Pardon the scars,
piled up by the hundreds,
overlapping and forming
geometric shapes
upon the surface of my skin.
I know maybe it's not the answer,
but anything just for a mere
shred of happiness, right?
I'm just your average,
anxiety-ridden freak.
I resort to intoxication
for artificial happiness,
and a since of normality.
I can be just like the others, right?
My hands shake,
and my feet take upon their own role,
twisting and turning,
tumbling and falling,
high as the stars,
in the vibrant night sky.