I feel I'm being suffocated...
...in a plastic bag...
...or i want to...

Getting high as fuck,
and drunk off my ass,
then cutting through skin
with shards of glass.

I never knew how lonely I was,
with people crowded around.
When my weekends are filled,
I get out of control.

But I feel safe in masochism.
Drowning my sorrows in a drunken state.
I never cared prior.
I was breezy against my fate.

Now, I'm just itching for my next quick fix,
my next emotional cleanse.
But everyday, I wake up sober, looking about my room.
My bags were all packed from last night,
but I know I'm not ready to leave home.

Every other child lets life get to them,
falling apart in a handful of pills.
Every time I come closer to death,
I regret not going through with it.