Picking my skin until there's blood,

Never uncork the glass bottle, it'll be a flood.

Picking my skin until it hurts,

What is an existence worth?

When did lack of solitude feel like a curse,

Sorrow woven in every verse.

What exactly, are my thoughts worth,

If they are so easily tradable for their mirth,

If this were a war, your words are the bullets,

That hit me squarely in the chest.

If this is your...