Pointing fingers 

The diversion created by pointing fingers: dissect them not me!
And I still have the balls to wonder why no one knows my turmoil, why I feel so alone. I should turn that finger around and use it to rip myself open, so they can see my insides. 

I imagine they would be made of rape, depression, drugs, and a messed up childhood, but I would be surprised to find out I am made of guts and love. Maybe the pills would spill from my blood, and I’d try to conceal them as they slip through my fingers to the earth.

It’s like suicide but instead of hiding behind death, I’d have to face them alive. I couldn’t leave a note in blood, or bits of me on the wall, or let them cry at the person they thought I was. Would I cry when my insides reveal I am just like them?

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