Life is not like Gloomy Sunday, with a second ending when the people are disturbed.

I cut myself because you wouldn't let me cry. I cried because you wouldn't let me speak. I spoke because you wouldn't let me shine. I shone because I thought you loved me.

Oh, and I certainly don't suffer from schizophrenia. I quite enjoy it. And so do I.

I still own my heart, which I know because it hurts so much.

I've learned that I work best when I'm entirely naked. The recording process was done that way.

And if I end up with blood on my hands, well I know, that you'll understand, 'cause I fight like a girl.

And, what's more, this 'precious' body, the very same that is hooted and honked at, demeaned both in daily life as well as in ever existing form of media, harrassed, molested, raped, and, if all that wasn't enough, is forever poked and prodded and weighed and constantly wrong for eating too much, eating too little, a million details which all point to the solitary girl, to EVERY solitary girl, and say: Destroy yourself.