I wake up all alone. I want to watch this fucking place burn. Pull from the bottle and light up the pipe. How I long to trace my veins. I’m sure this is what hell would look like if it existed: A never-ending spiral into depression. How I long to trace my veins. And just when the end is in sight, it tumbles further towards the bottom, a bottom I’m not sure exists at all. How I long to trace my veins. The poison in my veins shields me from the cold, harsh world outside me, but the burning in my head is barely dulled. How I long to trace my veins. There is a black knife, it’s made from glass. I wrapped the handle myself, and drew it back to sharpen it. And in that moment I realized that death was not the answer, that as deep as I sunk it would only get worse. So embrace the few light moments you get.

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