corners of my mind

If all I am is a symptom of insanity, what will be left of me?

I verge to churches, needing someone older, someone wiser, to patch up my ugly stitches. Lend me a reservation that says life wants me to be there. I would eat all the magnets there are just to pull myself together. When my feet struck the earth, it haunted me in all forms of punishment. I wanted to be nowhere of sight so I could stop infecting people with this disease. It'd be so much safer if I didn't let anyone in—if I didn't let anyone be of touch. I would be nothing in my soul if it weren't sick and bored of romanticizing this cruelty. I'd pick myself up off these pages until love falls out. There are times when I hope I can take myself as I am. I suppose it's a hopeless case for someone who's unfit for any human relationship.