I like to cause pain to myself, but not by knives or a blade, but by words and faith.
I like to cause pain to myself, but not by blood and tears, but by pen and fears. I like to cause pain to myself, but not through people and society, but through a pen and old half-filled diaries.
I like to cause pain to myself, but not through silence and darkness, but through screaming words and unsent letters, who are yelling so loudly that their throats hurt, their mind is shattered and the pages are torn from the screamings.
They have been there for a long time, turning yellow day by day, waiting for someone who might colour them. Who might give them a life, a purpose and a way through which they can have a mug of warm water, sooth themself.
The words like to cause pain to themselves, but not through screams and anxieties, but through agony and sobriety.
