for months now my body’s been clean-

but i’m itching to make it scream-

to make it pay-to make it cry-

since i can’t seem- to make my eyes.

my blurryface- he wanders-he flirts-

i know that he feeds-off of my hurt

-i’m falling through the bleeding trapdoor-

and i don’t know if i can do this anymore.

i wish my march was over and i could go-

to that angry place down below-

at least- then- the earth and the sky-

would not be blotted by my life.

you can protest-and you can persist-

you can tell me i’m not worthless-

but no matter-what you say- i’ll still believe-

the universe- it would be better- without me.