She is showing you the way that she never knew she felt. Her skin tastes like cancer.
They say: She is so much prettier in a coma. So much prettier dead/ asleep/ empty/ someone else.
She says: There is no escape. There is only one escape.
She sews her face back up. Clean slate/Dirty whore.
She says: Death to the optimist, the friend, the believer. Death to the nihilist, the anarchist, the antichrist, the saint, the martyr, the willing victim, the liar, the hater, the lover. Death to the mother, the daughter, the sister, the whore. Death to everything that hurts or heals, everything that believes or doubts, everything that gets worse or better. Death to lovesongs, to fightsongs, to sad songs, to hate. Death to everything. Death to me.
The only part of her that that cared hurts too bad to realize now. And one more time I has to explain my reasoning that I don’t believe.