I did it. All of it. I'm guilty of it.
I did it to forget.
I did it to become vacant.
I did it to make the constant neurosis, my own personal insanity justified.
I did it. All of it.

I did it because it seemed to be the only thing that could create the smallest ability in myself to smile.
I did it because it was easier,
I did it because it was the only "happy pill" that worked.
I did it to feel comfort, which quickly became survival.
I did it. All of it. I'm guilty.

I did it regardless of what I had to do to be able.
I did it impulsively, desperately, selfishly.
I did it to silence, or at least muffle those voices that only I could hear.
I did it to separate my soul from my body.
I did it in bathroom stalls, ally ways, in broken down and abandoned houses, in public.
I did it with people who did it too.
I did it isolated from the world and everyone in it.
I did it to slow me down, to speed me up, to function, to change the way I was without it.
I did it away from home so I could avoid the exact feelings I didn't want to feel that i saw in the ones I should have loved.
I did it. All of it.

I curled up on the floor, begging whatever may have been listening to rid me of this evil exploding out of my center. I filled my heart with a theoretical Novocaine that I'd concocted myself.
I pushed them all away.
I was alone.

Yes, I did it. All of it. I'm completely guilty of it.
Now when I speak, I hear no response.