even if i quit, theres not a chance in hell i'd stop.
biting keeps your words at bay. tending to the sores that stay, happiness is just a gash away. when i open a familiar scar pain goes shooting like a star, comfort hasn't failed to follow so far. and you might say it's self-indulgent, you might say its self-destructive. but, you see, it's more productive than if i were to be healthy. and pens and penknives take the blame, crane my neck and scratch my name. but the ugly marks are worth the momentary gain. when i jab a sharpened object in, choirs of angels seem to sing hymns of hate in memorandum. and you might say it's self-indulgent, and you might say it's self-destructive. but, you see, it's more productive than if i were to be happy.