Literature
The Devil you know
I'd rather let my problems kill me,
Over, and
Over, and
Over,
Let them rip me apart and
Slice me to ribbons
I'd rather feel every cut,
Every degree of heat and pain and
Be destroyed every night by what I fear most
Than pretend the devil doesn't exist,
Than pretend the world is a better place
Than pretend I can drown out the voices with liquid and powder and gold
Because every morning, no matter how torn and blackened and bruised I am
I can feel the sun stitch my soul back together
I can feel your hands lift me from the pit
I can feel you bring me back to life
