They tell you that you don't feel any pain, or any empathy
      and that the best way to leave you
      is the three-month silence.
 Your nickname is Queen Borderline
        and you smirk because you truly are flattered
        by the idea of being queen of 
                                       something,
        but then you read how that means your thoughts
        only speak manipulation and you know you can't
            ever let them know who you are 
                - what you are.
  What if they see what you see?
  What if they breathe what you breathe;
          find the minuscule pieces of
          aluminium that never really bothered you,
          never really dug at you,
                                               until now.
And now you're sorry, 
          awake every morning until 3am, 
          looking at words that meant nothing to anyone
          aside the small girls who never managed pass 
          the first stage. 
          Studying teaching, you learn child psychology and faint 
          at the idea of ever having to go that far 
          back.
Now, you're always sorry,
          cowering in your bedroom with softness filling your
          fingertips in the same way water fills a dead man, 
          headphones stuffed as far in as they can go 
                    photos being scanned, 
                                                               scanned, 
                                                                                 scanned.
                                  You try to contain it, but who are you? 
                               You try to contain it. 
                          What are you?
 Now, you're really sorry, 
           catching drags of cigarettes every hour to 
           control what was left of the darkness you couldn't 
           shut out or, 
           shut off. 
           It's easier than the dope, because money never 
           came too easily for someone like 
                                                        you,
           so why wouldn't you drown in a pool of 
           deadly ash and make it someone else's problem
           for a much later time. I mean, 
           what are you,  again?
 They tell you that you don't feel any pain, or any empathy
           But they forget that a lifetime of disappointment 
           leads to nothing good, and that everyone learns to shut off 
           when it becomes too 
           much. 
  They keep asking you why, with faces that hold 
           anger, maybe shame,
           but every letter only ever said how it was 
           too much, 
           how it felt too 
           far. 
    And still, it would be the better option, 
                                  wouldn't it?
They tell you that you don't feel any pain, or any empathy
           but you're eighteen years old drowning in fibre from the 
           weakest parts of you and you've forgotten where the darkness 
           is and now you're on the counter bare, cut-open,
                                                                       all-there
           and the only thing you're thinking about is his smile and how 
           magnificent every single piece of him is and you close 
           your eyes, whisper a prayer,
           and see
           him.