I like to kiss my own fingertips at night when the household's asleep it reminds me that there's comfort in affection even if all I've left to love is myself

I like to touch myself until faeries dance beneath my closed eyelids and pinpricks of light invade what little vision I have left for hours for the rush for what's beneath

I like to press used razorblades crusty with someone else's blood to my wrist and to steal from charity shops and to love strangers for the few minutes between bus stops when the back of their head is the most beautiful thing I've ever seen and to cry when they turn around and their eyes are too close together

and I like to cry because I'm shallow because that's enough to break my heart

I like to play with narcotics and pain and children's' toys to dance to hover between pointless adolescent rebellion innocence and the jaded smiles of those who lived their entire lives in the first eighteen years

then broke

I like to take other peoples' pills to wear their clothes and imitate their accents (I can do Australian pretty well now) and live for a day in their steel-toed combat boots like a method actor and wonder whether what I see from the outside of their window is the same as the vision that greets them as the the curtains beige threadbare sweep aside to greet the day

I like to sleep through daylight hours and imagine that this is what it feels like to be a vampire perpetual like sunshine hurts physically too

I like to trace abused fingers over starved ribs disconsolate and hope it means I'm dying I like to catch colds and STDs and glandular fever because it's proof that I was there that I've been close to someone real

I like to read Plath and laugh because she was a pathetic melodramatic bitch who didn't see the twisted painful beauty in the