It's like recycling. It's taking something old and broken and good-for-nothing, and then crushing it. Because it was never broken enough. And then suddenly it's new again. It's new for a while, but it'll get used. And then someone will need to destroy it further if it ever wants to be new again. Reduce, Reuse, Recycle. Reduce, Reuse, Recycle. Reduce, Resist, Relapse.
It's impossible to not be crushed again. It always seems so worth enduring. Because then I'm new again. I'm wanted, and I'm used. And then I get reduced. And that's why it's impossible. Because if I don't crush myself, I'll be old and broken and good-for-nothing forever. But I resist, I do, I try to. Sometimes I spend weeks waiting by the roadside. But it doesn't matter how long the cycle takes. It's still a cycle. And I have to hit the next section at some point. Reduce, Resist, Relapse.
Besides, it's better than being put in a landfill, right? Because this way it keeps every toxic piece of me inside. The alternatives release them to the rest of the world. This version is friendlier to everything around me. I'm the only one who gets hurt. And yet I benefit, too. This keeps me wanted, and usable, and new, and alive. And that's my best option. Because really, there's two cycles. I chose Reduce, Resist, Relapse.
I could've chosen Reduce, Relent, Release.

I'm wearing a mask,
And I'm undead,
But there's always a sugar rush for that.

I'm knocking at the door of someone who isn't supposed to be home until I'm ninety.

Lots of people carry knives,
And are covered in scars,
And no one is scared of them.
They're fun, toys, numbness.

I stay up way too late,
Because I can.
And it's scary to go to bed tonight.
After all, there's people with knives.

Have I been describing Halloween?
No.
This isn't a children's holiday.

I thought
I was an expert
At hiding.
Turns out,
No one has been looking for me.

I'm twisted. I'm sick. I play with daggers. I don't sleep, and I'm despairing. I'm unprepared. I make a big deal out of the contents of my head.
It's normal for a teenager, they say.
So I'm also quiet.

Fixed on
The addiction
But this pain's what lets me breathe.
Sometimes I try so hard
But I'm still scarred.
This borders on a need.
Because the scars set me free.

I've kept so many secrets,
Told so many lies.
About how much I sleep,
How much I hurt,
How much I've cried.
I couldn't keep them bottled up
So I held them on my frame.
It's silly, but it works,
So if they ask,
I am to blame.

Happiness is a choice.
Happiness is a choice.
And I'm choosing all the pain I'm in.
I'm choosing to touch silver to skin.
How messed up is it
That I want this?
Happiness is a choice.
But my mind has forgotten that.
It's always on the attack.
My mind says it has to be
Either pain or apathy.
Happiness isn't a choice for everyone.