Hardly Know What To

I pull out the insides of me.
I put them on display.
I turn them into delight,
I make them into play.
I make myself beautiful,
I make myself beautiful,
I make myself beautiful,
I try to make myself beautiful.
I fill myself with hate.
I mean to. It’s just for me.
I gorge myself with it.
I pretend that this is all I can be.
I make myself miserable,
I make myself miserable,
I make myself miserable,
I try to escape being miserable.
Joy or pain, it doesn’t matter.
I’m unable to escape
the very skin that surrounds me,
the water that drowns me,
the love and hate
that suffocate
and leave me breathless
and consigned to fate.

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About Catastrophe Jones

Wretched word-goblin with enough interests that they're not particularly awesome at any of them. Terrible self-esteem and yet prone to hilarious bouts of hubris. Full of the worst flavors of self-awareness. Owns far too many craft supplies. Will sing to you at the slightest provocation.
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