Who am I supposed to be? What has kept me from taking this crazy, wild life from myself? Who should I be? Am I still really me? I try and I try and try to heal the broken scars, the ashen face that is mine, the eyes that still shine with light even though it feels as though they are black like the hearts that are determined to hang my spirit upon the knife and slash and tear right through it. No one is here to save the beauty, to save the grace, to save the desire to live. It’s happening everywhere, so you know what? Why not me too? Why not join the fads, the trends that exclude all the peasants and rebels and mistakes that fated death could not find and erase forever in a smudge of dark lead. No friends, no enemies. No mouth, no ears, only eyes. My hands have been weakened, my legs cannot run, run from the fate I have been set upon, upon this apartment overlooking the cars, the trucks, the people below, and the people that criticized me so. Oh, oh, NOW they feel bad? Now they feel sad? But deep down somewhere, I know that they’re glad. Look at me, look at me, the depressed little creature, the angry teenager, oh what a cliché, is jumping down so cliché now?