First. Last. Fail.

I suppose I'm like everyone else,
Writing poetry about my shitty life,
Not really wanting to stick around,
With this deep set pain.

I know I'm not the first,
To drag a box cutter across my arms,
Or thighs and hips,
And pray that I'll cut deep enough this time,
To stop.

I'm not going to be the last,
That goes and fucks around,
Screws around with too many guys,
And feels defeated, destroyed, and hopeless,
When it's all said and done.

But I know,
That there is no one quite like me,
With the inability to cry,
So I let go,
Little................by.....................little.