Blood on my fingertips-red stained napkins hidden in used soda cans-late night yearning and sobbing-constant worrying and apologizing-hidden eyebrow razors and bandaids peeking blood from beneath-maladaptive loving daydreams-images of me hanging from my doorknob, eyes bloody and blank-secrecy in the shape of jeans and pants and bracelets soon-complete isolation and a sadness that spills out sometimes-burdening friends-hopelessness. When I was eight I remember wanting to own a bakery. Now, I just want to sleep. To sleep, and have someone hold me and never have to leave this moment of warmth. Knowing this is impossible gives me the urge to grab my noose-ties belt and be done with it already.