This is the mean reds.
They hurt all the way to your soul.
A stun gun would fail to shock me out of this.
I wake up feeling helpless against myself.
The easiest person to trust is yourself, so I hear.
I don’t trust me.
Bummed is the closest I can get to this feeling.
A familiar feeling that I’m unable to embrace.That past, this presant…
I cant keep feeling this much.
Now I know why I drank, now I know why I’ve hurt and this is all too much and so real.
I was taught early that I was expendable, my feelings unremarkable, and that’s what they tell me.
It’s an impulse to feel at home in my skin.
It’s an implulse I cant get a hold of.
So sad and so real, and I accept it.
I need that mask of disassociation.
I’m thirsty for it.
I’m hungry but the pain of hunger is too good to reflect that feeling.
I can’t feed myself, I need this physical point to reference.
It feels like a home.
I hurt and nothing can do that, it’s always a someone.
It’s predisposed to the make up of who I was or who I’ve become.
A quick fix with the cold heat of a razor, so brutal but such a relief.
So relivant and so appropriate.
Its what I turn to.
It’s what I have.
A drink down my throat, is a smack in the face…
If you put some ice on it you’ll numb it.
Cut it out and keep digging for those fragments I lost.
Becoming all I can to overcome this self hate.
Feeling loved but losing value.
I don’t trust this feeling.
Help, a kind word come to tease.
My walls are too high, my pain is too deep,
I want to feel anything but this.
Too much sadness surrounding me.
Closing in on me.
Inner strength, that inner peace.
The focus of a plea to get out.
The value is lost, I can’t live for them.
Only for me and I can’t even do that right.
It’s a tough role to jump into, as unstable as I am.
Acting as if I have it all together when I know I don’t
Are you fooled yet?
I don’t fool myself.
I’m sad.
I’m destructive.
I’m out of love.
I’m missing out.
I’m erradic.
I’m lost.
I’m hate.
I’m salvation.
I’m hurt.
I’m saved.
I cry.
I lose.
I take.
I keep myself.
I give me away.
I invert this feeling.
I suffer.
I cry.
I heal.
I’m not sure what I’m doing.
I fear what comes next.



Leaving the wounds open to remember falling hurts.
Checking scabs like doors for a new way out.
You can never be too careful with your feelings, but feel careless often.
Feeling crushed can hurt, but crushing hurt can’t make you feel.
If I have to keep this up I might as well aim lower.
So I dig a little more.
Digging a trap into this hole.
I search for a target, an ending, a fixed point, anything.
There’s nothing but dirt and me.
I start a little trouble, kill another bottle, smoke ’em if I’ve got ’em, but don’t insist.
Fuck your needs, fuck your stories, I’ve written that off with tears. in blood
I’ve sealed it from time with the blood I have left, and even that wasn’t much.
When you look back, just keep to yourself,
because visiting hours are permanatly over.