*i hate myself and i want to die. and i mean it.*

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its all in this blog
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but since i'm such a freaking coward, i'm just slashing myself again till it stops hurting.
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You should know better than to tell me to not touch You, to look at me in that way and then just leave.
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much better.
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what? was i that wrong when i thought that You knew me that well?
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life is my bitch to kill.
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and i should know better for everything else.
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poetry, knives and a martini, for a sickening bedtime.
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yeah, i'm a drama queen and i want people to feel sorry for me. don't we love pity?
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fuck.
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diary scans. i gave myself to Him on january 7th. we met in person on may 1st.




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i don't feel like hurting me over You anymore. not right now.
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"Notice:
remote of melody and concept
they have taken refuge in the night, the words.
Still humid, and impregnated with sleep
they roll in a difficult river and transform into disdain":
Carlos Drummond de Andrade, brazilian poet. Translated by me.
*