It kind of feels like this.

It's too early in the morning or really late at night. Either way when it hits it hits hard.

It starts on rain slicked streets on cold winter nights, drenched in rain because you don't bring an umbrella.

You don't care, you can barely tell through your shaking. 

Because your thoughts are spectators with stones ready to throw at the first signal.

It starts with an innocent comment, meant to be a joke. A little dry sarcasm is all. Innocent truly.

But you open your mouth because it stings. 

Your stupid ing mouth.

You begin to think of all the reasons why it stung, sly comments on how you should be, what some not like you think it is to live the easy live of Huang Zitao, and the comments that dig into your skin at night

alone in front of the mirror of why you will never be loved, why are you just a ghost and it echoes louder than any compliment.

So you're on that street trying to look calm and collected as the rain stops and your hair is stringy and your jacket has seeped water through.

But you feel the energy in your wrists, the desire to scream sits at the base of your throat

you want to claw your face away and slash at your wrists and you know you're going to cry.

This is such a daily thing though and truly, my life is so easy how dare I burden others with my thoughts  it's nothing right?

Of course.

Everything fine and dandy in that ol' head of that boy, yes indeed.

You panic because for s sake you just want to open that door and the tears are burning now.

You should have never opened your mouth, now they feel bad.

How dare you make them feel bad.

You're ashamed of making them ashamed.

You get in (ing finally) and fun those hands over your face and pace around, maybe run and jump onto furniture

there's too much energy it's overwhelming and it thrums powerfully.

Eventually you'll find that corner to curl up in and let those thoughts build

they are right I can't be loved what is there of me to love I'm just a burden, I'm taking up space, I'm in the way.

Ah, there it is. 

The snap.

There's that scream that makes your veins pop out and face turn red and you keep going until you run out of air. 

Oh, there's those tears really going now you can't control them anymore and your pulling at your hair

it's like a cat confused your face for a scratching post and your arms, too.

And, oh, you so badly want to complete the task. Just a cut is all you need.

But no.

You never do.

Now you're too tired and quite frankly now that most  it is out of your system you're starting to go numb.

Oh sweet numbness, I'm glad you came over tonight.

Here to take me to bed so when you, 

when I,

get up in the morning I'll see the scratches and the dull rawness of my throat and feel ashamed and regretful.

Then wait for the day where something small and meaningless triggers it again.

Another day in the perfect life of

Mr. Huang Zitao.