It feels like we're all fucking experiments.
Like we're being poked and prodded,
pushed and played with,
just to see how long it takes us to break.
And if we break,
when we break,
we're tossed out like trash.
Like we're not good enough because we couldn't handle the constant bombardment of pain and negativity.
Like we failed the test.
We weren't the good little punching bags we were supposed to be.
We didn't just dust ourselves and move on,
we chose to end the pain, thinking that was the answer.
And it's always the final choice.
We go through every alternative;
we rationalize the things that have happened to us.
We tell ourselves that others have it worse,
and we pretend we're okay,
until we can't pretend anymore.
We can't find a different answer,
and we can't handle being trampled anymore.
So we take a knife,
or some pills,
or a gun,
and we end the pain.
We just wanted to end the pain,
and we couldn't see an end without the end.