i know this feeling back to front; long since figured out how to keep myself warm on fragments and remains, and tolerate it for just one night longer. build a fire from laundry lint and twigs, and count down ’til sunrise.

and oh, my fingers burn, but you should be grateful, ’cause it could be worse. so define yourself by cuts and bruises, and worship at the altar of desensitized horror, day-old sweaters and cartoons.

but what if i just don’t want to do it anymore? what if brute strength gets old, and banging my head against the wall never helped, just left me shattered on the bedroom floor, empty and tired and not sure what to do anymore.

because i can’t shrink to fit the box they put me in. can’t smile, and nod, and not say anything at all, as the fire licks at my skin. so i lie in bed all day, wishing for a quiet oblivion.

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