I am stitched together with threads of regret. I constantly think about my compunctious what-might-have-beens. I want to forget everything so I put it on an old cassette, but it still continuously plays on repeat in my head. It scratches and scratches until I can't handle the pressure. I burst and each nerve in my body forms a million ruptures. Every one around me becomes overwhelmed and my good intentions are shattered. They enter a new realm. It's dark just like my soul, and it's lonely just like my sad heart. I'm alone here; my only company is this tempting blade I use to make all kinds of art. Maybe if I write something down, I'll feel less in a haze. I pick up the blade and start to write stories on each arm hoping that someday I might belong. For my wrists, I write about every night I spent in your car with the music turned up too loud for my thoughts and for my forearms, I write about every joke we ever shared that means nothing to you now. For my palm, I write lines of song lyrics that you told me to listen to because you thought they would help me get out but now they keep me in a pool that's not deep enough for me to drown. I'm stuck in this mental state and I'm choking on all the pills my doctor prescribed me. I want to get out permanently so I write some more on paper and begin overdosing.