If I hurt myself more, a little bit more, perhaps the feelings will die,

If not be dead, maybe-perhaps-I crave to feel a little bit less.

The feelings that drown me, the feelings that trap, that torment,

The feelings creating that void every moment, however I try.

I need my hands gone, my limbs and my brain-let’s get rid of them all,

But still when I lose them the feelings grow a hand, a pair of limbs and a mind.

I make a promise to myself, next time will be more merciless, will strike so I bleed more,

So that I remember the pain and the throbbing, hoping that will draw the feelings to an end.

Why do I still feel, why do I still cry, why laugh and why still save the hope in that room?

I wish to be a stone, a cold ruthless stone, just perform but never again feel the pain.