Feed me your lines, about darkness and despair
And the tragedy you claim, that your heart still pumps and your chest still heaves and your eyes still flutter

Oh, give me dark, raw poetry and tell me that my blood is beautiful on bedsheets


Are you sure you want to do that?
The way you lace those black words together puppeteers my hands, tying nooses with the romance of it all

Keep going, tell your fellow crying souls that one dance with the Reaper is greater than what comes without the knife

Hear me just this once:
There are fine lines in life, like fine lines on our wrists, so dance along them carefully, thoughtfully
There is nothing tragically beautiful about my mother finding my cold, dead corpse
Will you romanticize my mother's tears in the moments after she finds me?
Tell me that it's all so beautiful, then?
Are you sure you want to do that?
Do you feel like a literary genius now?

Don't hold my deepest horrors in your hands and fold them into stories