There Is Probably A Better Way To Say This

I hate that anything you can use to unhinge from the world has to burn when you take it. Like ripping out stitches. That my pleasure can never be painless. Never. Is anyone's? I don't know. Maybe I'll break the glass open.

(I can't stop starving. But I'm not going to ask you to stop me; you can't stick out your foot and trip a city bus.)

I hate the little black bits that grow on my sides when you're angry, and I hate coming down from a high. I hate the way I have to ask over and over, because you only ever have to ask once. I hate this "you" I'm using, pretending I'm not talking to myself. I hate this futility, this inevitability, so I'll spell it out in ink.

But the hope, the hope's the worst. There's somebody inside my chest and it's all I want, to kill her. But she thrives and lives off of my dead everything. She's a sadist, and I am hanging new sorrows onto old ones, and she looks at them and she is happy. She looks at them and lies to me and I believe her, I believe her, because I told you. Everything else is dead.