the chicken's still dancing the chicken won't stop

I'm here, got no choice. But you, you should be telling people.

Here I am and there is my body dancing on glass.

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.

I am the beast at the end of the rope.

What I sometimes mistake for ecstasy is simply the absence of grief.

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.