I hate it when I need words and I can't make them. when I need to cry, but my body is limited. it is exhausted. only energy left for self-destruction. it wants to keep the toxins inside. have them build up an army against me. reduced to a shell of myself they burn me. they dissolve of me. they murder my insides while I get at my outsides. the balls of the pens that wouldn't create the words I needed to find comfort in forced to my skin instead. tearing, stabbing, leaving marks. scribbling. another kind of comfort.
Lily Frances Patchett