i guess i'm spending too much time alone. alone, that's right, all-one. one of me, two shots of the cheapest ***** i could find.

my knuckles are scarring. like my fingertips would, back when i was happy enough to hold onto things like music instead of, just hold on until three, that's it, then i can let myself bleed.

no, this isn't right.

i think my heart is too small for my ribs, i can feel it slipping through the third and the fourth. skidding, slippery, across my bedroom floor to collect dust under my desk.

i'm hiding from more things than i could ever count, but mostly its the five-six-seven-eight-when-will-it-end scars branding my shoulders and my thighs and my ribs.

but i really am tired of rearranging the same ten songs into different playlists that all mean the same thing. i know that adding one more wouldn't make a difference. mundane.

i've ignored every thought of the ugliest ways to go. a dozen tylenol can **** just as easy as a pistol, that's what i keep telling myself. but what i really want is to maul every inch of my body until i'm soaking my dark blue sheets the same color as the inside of my head.

and my life revolves around 13. haunted number, maybe. maybe there are ghosts around every corner in my mind and i've just gotten so accustomed that i'm treating them like guests.

i've been imagining myself fourteen years from now, how i'll wander around whatever ****** apartment i'm sharing with some stranger. how i'll tiptoe around those floors, trying not to disturb the dust that will have settled over every inch of my skin.

fifteen feels like too many years to pretend but i have to keep up this facade because there are girls who care what i think and who maybe would be hurt if i didn't have the proper insides to think anymore.

i don't plan on living till 27. but you know, things are good. this is fine.