I fill my lungs with carcinogens
and hold it 'til it hurts
because there's something about
self-destructing in three,
two,
one,
and
my skin breaks under the pressure
of the blade and my high standards,
because there's something about
bleeding 'til I'm gone,
gone,
gone.

Warmth slides down my arm and onto the floor.
I can't seem to feel it anymore.
Smoke fills my heart with fire
and burns it down,
and finally I'll
exhale.

And this is how I'll disappear.