I feel as though my mind is barren. Like I can't produce more for my writing. Even the simplest of lines are starting to fascinate me now.
Writing was supposed to be therapeutic...
.. not this.
If you are so keen on hating me,
Please hate me only in the mornings.
For I know you dream of me every night,
And I would rather slit my throat every single day
than to be a nightmare to you.
"I want to rip my skin open and say, "See? I bleed, but I do not bleed red. Is this black you're seeing not enough? Do I have to rip a little more? Just so you believe when I say I'm not doing well?"