I was trying to find the words to describe accurately what I truly feel. But what if what I feel doesn't have any meaning at all? Does it really matter? It does matter, I say to myself trying to convince the unfaithful into the larger meaning, the poetry of life. 'The world is full of poets, we don't need anymore' says my reasoning, not the heart. But the heart screams the truth louder, hurting me for my own good, and my mind snaps for the third time in its short life. It snaps, just like before, and my skin turns opaque, my blood becomes grey and I pay with my life once again. I grow tired of cutting this soul of mine, to see the blood wash away any feeling. I finally understand this is a war I have to fight with myself and no one else can be at my side. And so I'll slowly kill me with my own hands.
