I can’t sing, but everytime
I sang a song,
it was an escape to not scream
about how much
I hate myself when
I see my reflection in the mirror.
I can’t write, but everytime I wrote
something on the paper,
it was an escape, to not say and rant,
to people of how much it hurts me
to be me.
I can’t draw, but everytime I drew
something on the paper, it was an
escape, to not draw a line on my
skin, with a razor blade.
I can’t stay alive, but everytime I act
like I am, it was an escape, to not to
die as a loser.
And finally, everything is an escape, to me.