I'm afraid to hope but I can't help it, and the idea of hoping in this most hopeless of all places makes me want to cry.

I felt angry,
frustrated.
I felt I didn't belong, not in my,

church, not in my home, not


in my skin.

I'm not really sure which parts of myself are real and which parts are things I've gotten from books.

It's a good thing most people bleed on the inside or this would be a gory, blood-smeared earth.

I'm partly somebody else trying to fit in and say the right things and do the right thing and be in the right place and wear what everybody else is wearing. Sometimes I think we're all trying to be shadows of each other, trying to buy the same records and everything even if we don't like them.

You leave the smallest things for me to find. They break my heart, I hope to die. It feels like you're the gun and I'm the killer. I'm holding you to my head, I hear every last thought, every pain and every failure. Every doubt and every thought of hopelessness. Waiting, I'm waiting for you to fire the gun, because I'm to weak to pull the trigger. Kill me, I beg you, you already killed me on inside.