Last night I had a moment
In that moment I considered
What I’ve given up in order to be like I this
And I wondered if it was worth it
There is no me
And if there was, would it make this any easier?
I watched the moon lower
Lighting my room though my south window
The markings I created and about my arm
It’s not a question of "should I..."
I think in a depressed repose as I finger my arm
It’s the thought of "He doesn’t want this..."
So, a sharpie is my defense, my outlet
Because I cannot let myself conquer Him
Thank you, Mr. Sharpie.
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