Blood On His Taste Budz

It’s hard to even “want” to exist when you feel like everything you do is wrong.

Almost as if your own voice is on egg shells.


You won’t even know the reason,


There’s never an option of knowing.

You just sit there quietly,

Letting the internal box get smaller and smaller as your only wish becomes,


Finish the job and crush me…”

“Can something just force me to leave already?”

“I’m too weak to finish anything…”

Then you start asking yourself,

Does it really matter that I want to slice my neck open,

Have someone grip it tight to squeeze every ounce of blood out,

And stab my ribs continously with the thickest ice pick you can find?

Does it really matter that,

No matter how happy I am,

The thirst for blood washes it away?…

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