when you realize that there will always be some-one who's better than you at whatever you do. you may think you write wonderful poems and one glance at some-one's compilations makes you shred your work and burn it. you might think that your fashion sense is quirky and individual but then you realize how many people own that artsy studded miniskirt and those pre-torn stockings and you give them away. maybe you can dance; and you see one girl on the dancefloor and you know you'll never dance again because your light won't shine as bright as hers. not in his eyes, anyway. so it takes a downfall and soon you think you're the best at wrecking yourself; destroying your life with a variety of poisons some of which taste oh-so-good; but then you meet a smackhead who's been on the junk for four years and will probably not live if he injects again. you finally try to be the best at dying - and what do you know? you have no friends or family at this point so there is no-one to grieve as your blood seeps into the sheets of the mangy bed you lay on in that dilapidated hovel you call your home.
so just give up - you're a fuck-up anyway.
why try when your dreams will always break?
snap like disregarded shards of mirror dust upon the pavement
mixing with the stench of loneliness deep inside your soul
and you don't belong in this place with these clean, normal people
shrinking away for fear of brushing against your burning skin
skin that burns with sin
wiping the dirt from his hands as he walks from the grave; no-one was saved.