It's not enough
to ask me
and expect
I'll know what to say
to make you feel like someone special.

What do I know of your insides?
Your dark spaces? Your hidden closets
of self-pity and conceit?
Who am I to stroke your narcissism?

I'm better off stroking myself.
At least I'll respect myself in the morning.

Writing isn't for happy people
is it?

Joy doesn't change people
the way pain does

Broken people
cut me
so I feel it
deeper

Am I an emotional masochist?
Or is that a sadist?
How can joy compare?
It's not as sharp
You can't cut meat
with spoons
You need the knifes edge
You need to bleed

Feeling something
is better
than feeling nothing

I gotta work tomorrow
it's getting too late for self pity.