Makes me sick I dont think I could ever shoot up for pleasure Maybe an addiction could drive me to that point

But needles sicken me No matter how thin and painless A silver sliver of metal piercing the skin with a pop and sliding under Crackles over nerve and muscle Sick Not only needles but gore Blood? its all good, I can deal But I had this one teacher, architecture And being a carpenter he had an unlimited supply of stories about shooting nails through bare skin and bone Or detailed descriptions of the snapping and slick slice of a circular saw tearing it way through a thigh muscle the slicing off of appendages and groaning as the chunk of your flesh thunks onto the floor sick Along with the slice and chop come the sounds Piercing, stomach tumbling, heart cracking sound, inescapable When I was 7 a serine walk through the neighborhood was interrupted by a raccoons meal A half dead meal, squirming and jerking Screeching as the raccoon pulled chunks from the rabbits heaving sides Calmly the murderer stuffed the dripping strips of fur into his jaws Squishing the blood and gristle around as its previous owner bled out on the pavement Being seven I was transfixed, stapled to the spot by the creatures human suffering Soon enough I ran though, the screams following me home They still rest, peacefully in my dreams, ready to pounce Sick The bloody screams of that rabbit haunt me for their humanity, just as if the poor thing was a human child But when experienced true human pain is chilling, a call from death emphasizing our mortality Creeping up my shoulders Dripping along my bones A tear across the molecules A needle rammed through my ear bones snap and splinter

Shoving calcium spikes into strained muscles twisting red living flesh to grotesque shadows listen to the raw voice of terror as the victim can do nothing but howl loosing to the immense strength of pain crumpling in screeches of agony sick My imagination knows these tales make me cringe It torments me with fleeting thoughts of pain, piercing, impaling, slicing, gouging, ripping, and general mangling of wet, soft, gooey, human flesh Sick By far, the victim has it worst, but standing by feebly watching with clenched fists and a pale heart.? Its another sickness I cant escape I can never escape the knowledge of how small and weak I am It pushes my hope down my throat and bursts a ragged whole through my lungs And as i gasp for breath my shortfalls crumble as dust in my mouth choking my inadequacies splinter into spines that jab, stab my heart I struggle, squirm, struggle to act Im Sick Powerlessness of the deepest kind nestles in the hollow of rejection Oozes out of the corners of dismissal seeps between the edges of denial that someone carries no respect for me enough disregard that they walk, walk away from me crumpled on the ground that punches me with a fist of pure defeat abandoned because of my soul forgotten because I am me sitting on the bench I wait for someone to call my name holding the book limply, as if reading it pleading that some one will ask what I'm doing attempting to stand out because that means they will at least look at me conforming because that means I'm like them hoping they care, a little bit, maybe just pretend holding my self in my hands, insisting that I matter as the lizard in my stomach laughs and twists his claws, scratching and smiling as I am alone, sick sick to my stomach