In Utero

I ****ing hate myself and want to die. In Utero, I deem inspiration, but not sarcasm or imitation. My anguish is authentic and a cry for help, but why would people waste their time? Not like their so-called justification for concern is any indication that they care enough to bawl, weep and cry. Nobody will even care when I’m gone, much less the violated deity. For that, I am ungrateful and alone. I scorned her body with a written piece. A conclusion which should have been forgone. Forgone like death, which should put me at ease.