nothing about me is
nothing about how I think is beautiful;
the fact that I hate myself,
and want to tear open my veins,
and think of twenty-two ways (and reasons)
to kill myself before noon,
isn’t tragically beautiful
(it’s just tragic,
and really fücking sad).
don’t turn me into a misunderstood
piece of art, and do not belittle
my sorrows so your antagonist
can have someone to save.
nothing about me is poetic;
nothing about me is beautiful.