I love the fact that I'm fucked up.

I love it.
Every bit.
The slit.
Wrists.
The belt around my neck.
As I'm standing on my chair.
The failed suicide attempts.
The want, no, need to run away.
The love that tears me to strips.
The "I don't give a fuck" attitude.
That's no more than a mask.
The alcoholic family tree.
The cousin who never made it.
The pain.
That stains.
My soul black.
The violent outbursts.
That have subsided slightly.
Though not without a fight.
The growling from under my hood.
The girls, who played with my heart.


And.
The family who devote so much to me.
The better side of that family tree.
The pain we have all shared.
The two cousins who are still there.
The friends.
Brothers some of them.
The large group.
The girl.
Who I want to be with now.
The laughs from outside the hood.
The happiness when I'm not angry.
The state of elation.
When I no longer want to end everything so much.
And still.
The goal of leaving.
Travel.
With my friends or not.
For now.
I am happy.
-H