Panic Attack number million: Result.

You can’t do this anymore.
You can’t hurt me anymore.
No phasing, you don’t exist.
You’re a fucking dead piece of shit.
I’m not okay but you’ll never know that.
My goal is to look so fantastic, in fact
That you hate it and you come at me and throw me another swing.
Because then I can catch you by your filthy rotten wing
And I’ll break you beat you and throw you in a pit.
You won’t even taste the sun in your bowl of shit.
And finally you’ll suffer more than I do.
Forever in a living hell is more than you’re worth to.
Maybe then my head will finally be clear,
Maybe then I won’t hear,
Their voices-crying and screaming injustice in pain
Maybe then I won’t always wanna cut open my vein.