Vice Grip.

A slum of a home I've built.

Remembering that what awaits me is the pt. 2 of my isolation.

Remembering that what's inside of me is angry.

A feeling I threw into my left arm which I can only vaguely recall.

Something is tired inside of me and wishes to sleep.

My heart is bruised and beaten at how many times you've dropped it.

At how many times I've dropped it.

I'm cheap.

Love was in Pandora's box.

To which when opened unleashed exactly what I knew to be inside: Mistrust

I've lost my mind to a vice grip.

I'm certain it'll kill me one way or another, a time in short order.