These people i live with, have become nothing more than.

Strangers! . My arm is tattered, torn to shreds.

Failed for one last attempt, so I punished me.

74.

I stopped at seventy four, apparently .

I counted after.

Seventy four wounds, on my arm.

Seventy four little trickles rolling down my arm.

And i’m still fucking here. The people I live with, the ones I used to call family. Are nothing more than careless strangers. This isn’t the first time I’ve worn nothing but jackets and long sleeve’s for days straight, they know, but they don’t care. I’m their disposable MULE. Nothing more than a slave. These people, who I used to hug, and tell them I love them more than anything, are nothing more than strangers. People I don’t even know, faces I can’t recognize.

Perhaps I am a ghost. Like i’m in a coma. My life is as torn as my body. Seventy four. Nothing is real anymore.