WELCOME TO SHRAPNEL CITY, SPITTING ***** OUT LIKE BULLETS, OR PEOPLE, OR GRAINS OF SAND, OR PLANETARY SYSTEMS. I SAY “I THINK THERE'S SOMETHING ****** UP IN MY HEAD” LIKE SOME PEOPLE SAY “IT'S RAINING OUTSIDE” AND MAYBE THAT'S REALLY ****** UP BUT I CAN'T WAIT FOR SOMEONE TO ROMANTICIZE ME WHAT IF THERE'S SOMETHING WRONG WITH ME BUT THAT'S OKAY, IT'S NOT VIOLENT OR NASTY OR ******, SO THAT MEANS IT'S HEALTHY, RIGHT? THAT MEANS WE'RE HEALTHY, RIGHT? EVERYONE HAS BAD DAYS, SWEETHEART I WANT TO DRAW EYES ON MY WHOLE BODY, COVER MYSELF IN SOMETHING GOOD, PEEL OFF MY SKIN AND MAKE IT INTO A SONG THAT OTHER PEOPLE CAN BLEED / CRY / SMOKE TO (THIS IS MY DREAM, I SAY, AND I THINK YOU MIGHT BELIEVE ME). I HAVE A DEATHLY FEAR OF CHOKING BUT I LIKE IT WHEN MY CATS SCRATCH ME BECAUSE IT GIVES ME AN EXCUSE TO BLEED THAT I DON'T USUALLY HAVE, AND ISN'T THAT JUST SO WEIRD? ISN'T THAT SO CUTE? DON'T LOOK AT MY LEGS, OR MY FINGERS, OR MY SCALP, DON'T ASK IF I'VE BEEN GETTING ENOUGH SLEEP. IGNORE THAT I EXIST (I DON'T). IT'S OKAY, I WON'T MIND. I WEAR SWEATERS ALL THE TIME SO NO ONE CAN SEE MY CHEST AND I SAY IT'S A GENDER THING BUT ACTUALLY IT'S MORE LIKE AN I-HAVE-SCRATCH-MARKS-AND-SCARS-ALL-OVER-MY-CHEST-AND-I-THINK-I'M-­BECOMING-LESS-OF-A-REAL-PERSON THING. IS THAT MESSED UP? IS THAT WEIRD? IS THAT CUTE? I'LL PUT IT ON A T-SHIRT, MAYBE. IT'S NOT SELF HARM, I JUST DON'T LIKE HAVING BUMPS ON MY BODY. DOES THAT MAKE IT BETTER? DO YOU FEEL LIKE A HERO YET? I'M GLAD I'M GLAD I'M GLAD I'M GLAD I'M GLAD I'M GLAD I'M GLAD I'M GLAD I'M GLAD I'M GLAD I'M GLAD I'M GLAD I'M GLAD I REALLY AM