I think it is super cool. I love to cut myself, in secret places no one knows. On my heart especially because no one would ever see. I love as the pain sears through the soft parts of my skin, almost as good as the orgasms.

I love to watch the blood drip, just a little bit, I love to taste it. I love to watch the bright white soft toilet paper get stained bright red and destroyed, and fancy myself getting infected and maybe my arms amputated.

I love to feel pain. It’s my pleasure. I love to hurt, it’s my release. I love to drink. Alone. In my wilderness, while thinking wild thoughts that drive me out of my mind. That makes me scream in pain, and tears running down my face freely, my pillow muffling my voice while I drive it hoarse. I love to forget why I’m even crying and just enjoy the gushing. I love it when I remember something un-remotely funny, and I laugh, so deep and so coarse, and I cry and laugh.

I love to touch the bags under my eyes after, I love to rub them till they’re sore. I love to wear the glasses that cover the shame, I love to tell people I’m okay and I just slept really late. I love to come out of my own body and watch me laugh and play and tell everyone jokes.

I love being the life of the party, while I die from the party. I love to encourage people who tell me they are going through half of my problems.

I hate being comforted. I hate being loved. I hate being needed. I hate being told about how priceless I am. I especially hate being told to be grateful. I hate hearing about how it gets better. I hate being told not to think all men are the same. I hate reading corny love stories, I hate reading happy stories. I hate feeling useful.

I hate being treated like a princess. I am not a princess. I am a slave. To my pleasures. To my pain. To life, my pimp, that gives me out to every calamity and makes videos of me being fucked. And plays them to me after, through my memory core.

And I hate my memory, that never lets me forget.