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.