I am an emotional plagiarist, stealing other people's pain, subsuming it into my own until I can't remember whose it is any more.

Here I am and there is my body dancing on glass In accident time where there are no accidents You have no choice the choice comes after

I feel like I’m eighty years old. I’m tired of life and my mind wants to die.

No boy is worth crying over, and the one who is won't make you cry.

Have you made any plans? Take an overdose, slash my wrists then hang myself. All those things together? It couldn't possibly be misconstrued as a cry for help.

Comedy is easy. First, people have to fall down. Next, include someone a little hefty. It's a hoot.

Please. Don’t switch off my mind by attempting to straighten me out. Listen and understand, and when you feel contempt don’t express it, at least not verbally, at least not to me.