someone asked me over the phone
if i wanted to **** myself and i
regurgitated every pitiable
answer you'd expect to discern from
the most normal of people and a few years
ago i never would've lied but acting
is a state of mind as opposed to a
state of art and it's so necessary for me
because someone asked
me over the phone if i wanted
to **** myself and the truth
was so difficult to handle
that i bled black blood from
the wound in my mouth, the
hole had been singed there
when i began feeling
like the knife lodged in
my stomach wasn't nearly
enough pain yet when do we
begin to enjoy the euphoric
disasters of adventures
with a warning sign shrieking
out: DANGER DEATH AHEAD
when do we stop crying when
we take too many pills when
do we stop praying to a god
who never loved us in the
first place when does
our innocence rust from
its original golden surface but
there isn't an answer to that
rambling of a sentence i'm afraid
and the dark rainclouds moving
in the distance have thunder resounding
in my headaches and getting
closer by the hour and i want
to cry, i used to be so much
sweeter than this but someone
asked me over the phone if
i wanted to **** myself

and i lied
because i did.