my hands are cold
my body is warm
my head is spinning
my legs are weak

i didn't eat.

the sun rises
the sun sets
days pass

what's the point?
to live?
to die?

you make me want to figure it out, though

it's just a cut.
it's just a bruise.
"what's on your leg"
it's my new tattoo.

it's just a disguise.
it's just another lie.
"what's with all the sweatshirts"
it's just style, why?

it's just a tear.
it's just a scream.
"why are you crying"
it's just a bad dream.

but it's not just a bruise,
or a tear, or a lie.
it's always "just one more"
until you die.

i feel like i do the most
and get nothing back.

i'm breathing,
but i'm not alive.

the hotel window
from the sixth floor
was higher than i expected.

i looked down
in a longing gaze,
imagining myself slowly falling
and finally being at peace,
dead on the ground.

but i felt something.
my heart was racing:
i was scared.

i was actually scared
to die