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you would do well to remember
that I'm not made of stone
thousands of papercuts into
my armor, it splits and I
bleed unto paper.
...
I wish I could bleed out in
your arms, instead.
there's a balance to be

struck, the tightrope

between creativity and

burnout; a match lit from

both ends and I'm burning

alive.


I don't know when to stop.
screaming in a

soundproof room

the feeling of

tiny cuts opening

my scars displayed;

bright red. It's like

I'm unraveling, and

I don't want to stop.



"It feels like relief."

— The End —