I Don’t Have Music, Christ

I Love You Still, Against My Will.

I Crave White On White And Black, But My Thoughts Race In Glorious Technicolour, Prodding Me Awake, Whipping Away The Warm Blanket Of Invisibility Every Time It Sears To Smother My Mind In Nothing.

I Feel Like I’m Eighty Years Old. I’m Tired Of Life And My Mind Wants To Die.

No Boy Is Worth Crying Over, And The One Who Is Won't Make You Cry.

Here I Am And There Is My Body Dancing On Glass.