Would you tell someone with asthma to just breathe better? You can’t tell me to just stop. I hate it when you say what’s wrong with you? I hate it when you say why don’t you love yourself? It’s a treacherous lie to myself. I don’t know who is to blame. No, there is only myself to blame. My mind is a Chinatown that never sleeps. Stop it. Shut up. Shut up. Tie them up. Tie them up. Tie them up. Cover them. Bandage them. Hide them. Animals one cannot tame, they are uncontrollable, on the tips of my five fingers. There is never hesitation, they never rest, the hyenas are hunting tonight again. I suffer within this endless maze. I slip and tumble, constantly the hounds rip my flesh, I hopelessly let them and then flee. When I come upon a dead end, the hyenas are right behind me. They aim for my head, tearing flesh by flesh. I don’t have the energy to scream out, you are no longer my friends, you’ve betrayed me. My head is dizzy, I’m lightheaded, I’m exhausted and I suffocate underneath them, then I’m out. I wake up in a blink of an eye. I see a wall in front of me. I sit up, besides me there are also walls. Everything I do and everything I try is useless, I’ll never escape this infinite maze. I look to my right, they’re already here. I didn’t even see them approaching. I didn’t hear them. I never detect them. They are still hungry, it’s not enough, but I’ve had enough. Every time they feast my hands are covered in blood. It’s oily. It’s miserable, but somewhere in the maze I lie down, I’m tired of running, I’m tired of tying them up. Instead I speak to them, I speak dreams of folklore. Can I ever escape, my friends? Words I always say as they rest their chins on my body. The way they devour, rip, my flesh, is sick. And the other is selfish. I'm selfish. I like the feeling of your teeth on my skin. I like the feeling of my black coarseness gone. I like the feeling of fireworks left behind. It’s pleasure, and the pleasure outweighs the pain. It’s weird, they are neither an ally or an enemy. You’ve always lived alongside me, more, you live as one with me. You have done more than I can thank you for. I cannot just curse you, hate you. For my hands have always provided gifts. If you ask me about my disorder, ask me what’s the reason for my doing, I have no answer. If you ask me about the feeling, it is never enough. I starve for the black coarseness to vanish and the pain that boats along it. A hunger that is never fulfilled. 

Words I always say never reach anyone. Well, perhaps other Trichsters would understand.