I’m exhausted but I’m not tired. I must sleep but I can’t sleep.

Sometimes I wish I was strong enough to gut myself. I’d make a line across my stomach, proping myself against a wall, and try to pull my intestines out to see how far they’d stretch. I’d make a hole on the left with the tip, curved for better control, and drag to the right with the edge. To enlarge the hole, turn the knife blade facing away from you and place between your index and middle finger as a guide. I’d cut my arms open and tear out the flesh to make sure I couldn’t sow myself back together. Sometimes I just draw the lines on my stomach, mixed in with all the writing, and imagine that the coldness of my pen is the chill.

For some reason, it helps.