“playing russian roulette with death.
 but when do i draw the line? when the knife hits the skin, isn’t it the same thing as dying? because i’m so obsessed with death.
 some people just have more guts than others. the funny thing is boys like me don’t shoot. i swallow pills, still wanting to be beautiful at the morgue, still hoping that the mortician finds me sexy and attractive, i might as well be buried with my shoes and handbags and scarves. i flirt with death everytime i etch a new tally mark into my skin, i know how to split my wrists to reveal a battlefield too.
'i only know how to exist when i am wanted’ boys like me are hardly ever wanted you know, we’re used up, and sad, and drunk and perpetually waiting by the phone for someone to pick up and tell us that we did good."