something old

i cant help but romanticize my own self destruction,
its empowering to a sharp point.
self loathing is an abstract art i can birth without putting in too much effort.
what im hiding, whats under these sheets is blood stains from broken street glass.
are you jealous of my scars? i know its what you've always wanted.
its a competition, youre winning only because you can play the guitar and i cant write those desperate love songs anymore. 
but i can lose, maybe im just better in pounds, im winning at nothing.
is it a race? who can die faster, who will stop breathing, who will kill the laughter?
i love myself as much as anyone can love me, until i cant forgive myself for your withering.
gooey warmth feels better than living memory. 
i get control over whats meaningless and nothing. 
its an art to kill yourself freely, its an art to give up gently.
compete with death so you can finally get the rest you need. the outside doesnt fit in so clean. 
if i pretend its not real, if its a great tradgedy, ill get a good ending, one thats neverending.
its scary trying.
its painful to be defected.
im everything i never always wanted to be, ill say its harm reduction.