I think I could start smoking and start dying
and stop caring and keep crying.

**** my skin,
tear
tear
tear it apart
with my anxious nails and teeth
and razor blades
I am my own brain surgeon
constantly picking
trying to figure out what is wrong with me.

I want you to take me into the woods again
mix my flesh with bark
and I can go home
****** with leaves in my hair
because sometimes there is no point in being good.
What is good, anyway?