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Old chair, carved desk.
Pencil.

Can you draw me a life of my own?
A little one...I wish to die young.
But still, a few years would be enough..as long as they were filled with dirt and furious men shouting to me how distorted my vision becomes each time i decide to put rush into my veins and become lighter than air...brighter than light...more beautiful than you could ever be. Drugs they say, i re-named it freedom. I called them to me and to me they come as i gently press the needle against my arm that by this time should be dumb with overwhoelming feeling of ecstasy.I wanna die young and although it hurts me to know you hate my whole existance i feel no guilt for I am master of my destiny and my only flaw is not knowing how to draw.

Can you draw yourself a life of your own?
A dangerous one, for you are too scared all the time.
A few years would be enough...as long as they were filled with decisions to make and paths to choose and people standing in the way because you always had it too easy, never done anything to get it through your own skils and always bragged about the things you thought you had reached, but didn't. Not quite. I'm tired. And I'm a little sick. And to be honest right now, yes because i decided to be honest with you since the day you took that mirror off the wall and threw the damn thing at me screaming words of violence and friendly hate, i hate you almost as i hate not being able to cut myself when people are staring .But one thing i have to say: You can draw.

I can write.
I wrote my own life.
A few years were enough, for they were filled with tears and grief and theories where i described how i felt about you and your god damn mirror and how you should die.It's broken now, you see? And there's nothing you can do 'cause what are we anyways? But pieces over a shitty and sick little chess board floating over troubled waters? I can swim...But i can't play chess. Can you do any of those things? You can draw but you can't live life, so what's the point in having a body , pretending to breathe and faking all those feelings you say that are real and hurt people 'cause they're not,just like you hurt me with shattered glass.


I wrote my own life in my body.
A little life, a dangerous one.
For now i see that you were the one thing not worth to die for. You took me and my willing to try just a little bit harder than the day before and turned it into water. Tears... God! I could grab that black pencil of yours and stick it right into your stomach just so you could feel what i felt when you took my freedom away. i was about to rape death then and become another thing you thought you had reached, but didn't. Not quite. So i decided i needed to breathe in another way besides being free, wich i wasn't at the time thanks to you, so i grabbed, not a pencil, a piece of your mirror, among all the others that i kept to myself, and pressed it against my arm, like the needle i used to sing to. Rush again. Ecstasy. I'm falling apart and I regret nothing, not one little thing i ever did to myself for i feel trully alive now and i'm going to die for it. Dying young feels right. I just wish you weren't that small person that you are, fearing all things the whole time, wish you would have taken the time to
try this amazing thing i dared to try and is leading me to eternal peacefulness.

But it's not too late, you can still die with me if you wish for it hard enough. You can't write but i can teach you.

I'll hurt you.

"Your very flesh shall be a great poem."