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.