"White trash, get down on your knees..."

Sick of everybody.

Sick of being pulled one way and then the other. Sick of being twisted up, turned around, lied to, emotionally played with, conquered by the most base of sentiments. Sick of everything. Sick of everybody. I always thought I was better than this...but temptation tempts the tempting, and I like the way you move in the dark. I like the tension and the spark.

"Life's not meant to be disposable...
Lost. Found. Dead.
Ready and willing,
Can't stop the bleeding;
Life's not meant to be expendable...
Rain. Sun. Gone.
Left robbed, unwilling --
Can't fight the feeling;
So low.
Overwhelming.
Clinging to a tragedy
So clear,
Hear weeping voices --
Tears fall in the dark.
Feels like I'm caving in from the outside...
So lost. So gone. So wrong."

I don't get it. What am I worth? A source of comfort when bored? A game to play when the other kids have gone home? I don't get it. Thorns uncurling between my teeth again. I just don't understand. What do I want?

"Am I so unlovable?
Is my skin untouchable?
Do I remind you of a part of you that you don't like?"

I have been quietly etching away at the glass mask that encapsules the inner ugliness associated with my deception. I have been silently picking at the brown-red scabs garnered from a quick fall from faith...as per my poor Christian cognomen's suggestion. I bruised my knees when I touched down. Kiss my owies with your acidic lips. I won't cry when it burns.

I had to grow up fast. Too much pressure building within this little plastic doll. Soon I'll burst; soon you'll lose interest. Soon you'll go to the store, clutching pennies, ogling the other cellophane-wrapped treasures...pick out another. And another. And another. What does it matter if my painted eyes leak tears? Others can do that for you, in your name, for the pain you endure. We'll always have our secrets. Those you can't throw away. They're non-recyclable.

I'd like to be non-recyclable, but the confusion you heap on me is too much to move beneath. Stick to a pattern of conduct, soldier. I like the tension and the spark.

Ich kann es mir nicht aus den Rippen schneiden.