You make death seem like the ultimate thing to wish for
                   On a shooting star,
                   Or at 11:11
                   Or on whatever it is people wish on these days.

You make slicing my thighs seem like the ultimate prize
At the end of a long day.

You make death seem like it’s the only thing I need to aim for.

I don’t dream of what my life could be anymore,
                    The job I could have,
                    The family I could love
Rarely crossing my mind.

When people ask me where I want to be in 5 years,
                    Or even 3,
I hesitate.
Wanting to be 6 feet under the stars,
                    Maybe in 5 months,
                    Preferably in 3,
But these are secrets you dare not speak of,
So I simply reply
                    Happy.
Maybe in Washington,
In a port town,
Or in Colorado in the mountains.

I don’t dream about love anymore,
                     Or at least I try not to,
But my god do you make it hard
Because,
Well,
                      I love you.

Instead I try to dream of cars,
Crashing into me,
It gives me the same sensation as dreaming of you,
                      But it doesn't hurt as much,
                      Or as last as long.

I find it hard to find the thrill in living.
Maybe I’m just not doing it right yet,
But right now I find a certain thrill
                       In hiding my scars,
                       In pretending to be fine;
I like to give others enough information
That if they tried hard enough
They could figure me out,
To see if anyone thinks I’m worth the effort.
                       Update: I’m not.