I'm sitting here
reading poetry and listening to
"please cheer me up"
music.
It's not
working.
I'm texting a boy. Gonna get
laid. I just read
a poem about
a girl who liked
pain during *******.
And I'm thinking
me too.
So tired.
So tired of love.
It only gives up.
***. Well that can't hurt.
Unless you want it to.
And that, it's a pain
but one I
control.
Deserve.
Want.
Bite me and break me and bruise me and
show me what I am made of.
I don't know. What is it?
Tomorrow I'll brag.
"I'm getting the D. Yeah. ****. Women want it to."
(I'm a feminist)
Tonight, I'll cry. Tonight I'll break.
This weekend.
Then I'll **** until I can't feel anything
but your sweat against mine
and the breaking of my skin.