Reach into me, scour me for my soul, throw it up against the wall,
**** it.
Powerless, vulnerable, submissive is my soul.
Offering, willingly, hoping it may not hurt. Though it always hurts.
I know I will never escape.
Though achy and sad, I am free in the throes.
I let go of who I am and forget that it's me.
Letting go of myself and my life and my problems and my joy and my pain and my worries and my sorrows and my dreams and my fears and my feelings and my thoughts and my colors and myself and becoming nothing.
I love being nothing.
When I’m nothing I don’t have to be anything ever again.
Lonely nonexistence is my favorite pastime.