don't waste your breath telling me to get better, talk dirty to me don't hold your breath hoping i try to help myself. if you're going to hold my neck hold it a lot tighter than that, don't forget to push down on my windpipe with your palm, we're wrapped up in these bedsheets because i want you to hurt me. i want to see the rope burn on my wrists glisten where it's begun to tear away at my flesh and i like to feel real tangible knots when i'm tied up in self loathing. i struggle to find the line between lovesick and depressed or being a masochist. what's the big difference. either way i wake up with bruised blue lips and oxygen deprivation, and fresh linens wet with singeing liquids, and a pain in my stomach or lungs that means i'm still breathing slightly. i wanted you to kill me.