Give me more.
I want it, you, this. I want it leaking and pouring out of me in bursts of light and dark and red.
This abuse, this dance we play at, this never ending waltz as it were.
Give me more.
I want this torture, make me angry.
I want this natural nicotine high without the smoke, this,
opium rush without the side effects
I want to fool myself into this way of thinking,
because everyone dies alone.
Well I am alone, so maybe I'm just dead. This is my Cotard Delusion, my, walking corpse syndrome, that, praised and knighted insanity that I keep on the pedestal labeled 'individuality,' which in the end, is probably just another mental disease.
I'm painting a master piece of broken colors here.
And I want, I want to want to want to be okay but I know this thrill I desire is one that only cuts and bruises can satisfy,
because everything else is empty besides the husk and shells can only feel pain, so give it to me.
Watch me, I'll cry, and the water will only fuel the twinge and the sting of this, velvet planted life I claim to live with it's windows boarded up and, the doors set locked on close.
There's no falling or flying, no crashing or burning, just like, rolling around in a straight jacket with walls covered with knives and little pieces of the glass that shattered when you broke.
Give me more, this utterly enthralling down pour of the only emotion I can muster at will, this pain, this torture, this self abuse as I stab my shell with knives and try and force it to be alive but it won't move.
I try and tell it to walk, but it won't take a step.
I try and tell it to fill up, but any warmth burns like acid to the point where everything is better just left untouched and tainted...
There is nothing to fix.
Just give me more.