Another day.  Oh god, I don't think I can take another day.  This shit is horrible.  In here all alone, all alone, all day, every day.  With my mind.  All alone with my mind, my thoughts, my own memories.  Some bad.  Most are bad, because most revolve around the one thing that got me in here.  The screams, the blood.  The deaths of my parents, my sister and her husband, my baby nephew.  But some are good.  Like the taste of their blood.  Especially the baby's.  WHAT?!  So I licked it off my fingers!  I was curious!  This was such a big factor in the trial.  Acting like I was such a sick fuck just because I didn't want to wipe the blood someplace where it could show and become incriminating evidence.  Saying I was disturbed, a fucking pervert, that I wanted to kill and eat them.  NO!  I only wanted to kill them!  I didn't want to kill them.  I had to.  They would have done horrible things to me, all of them.  Fucking killed me just because I slept with my boyfriend's best friend.  The world fucking hates me and I HATE THEM!  They won't get to me first.  How can you blame me for not wanting to let them get to me first?  They'd fucking stone me to death, burn me to death with their words, their eyes, their dirty hands.  No.  No.  Anyway.  I have some more good memories.  My boyfriend.  The new one, my old boyfriend's best friend.  I have good memories of that.  Of kissing him, of being held by him, of making love to him.  He held me and let me cry.  He told me I wasn't crazy.  That was before.  He changed his mind when I took charge of my life.  He'd always called me a fucking free spirit, said I could do anything I wanted.  Lying fuck.  He never told me he had a list of things I couldn't do and keep him at the same time.  Never told me that trying to make the world, my fucking LIFE a better place would get me exiled from his heart.  And I gave him my virginity.  My boyfriend, the one I had before him, couldn't get it out of me for two fucking years and I gave it to this guy within a month.  It just felt right with him.  I loved him.  Damn it, I loved him the whole fucking time.  I slept with him.  So what?!  It just felt right.  Maybe it didn't look that way.  Maybe I should have broken up with the other guy first.  But I didn't want to break his heart.  I couldn't do it.  Nobody understands.  That my greatest fear is hurting people.  Nobody understands because it looks ironic in the face of all I've done.  But I've been hurt all my life.  I hate that feeling.  Feeling like less than shit.  How could I impose that feeling on someone else?!  Does anyone not see the logic of that?  I would never willingly hurt another human being.  It was necessary, a necessary evil.  I had to do it.  I had to.  They would have hurt me more.  I can't stand to hurt any more!  My mother called me a fucking slut.  My mother.  My own mother.  She wanted me to suffer for my mistakes.  Everyone did.  I couldn't take the easy way out, they said.  Couldn't kill myself, wasn't right to kill my baby.  They couldn't stop me.  They were on my side at first, right after I clogged the toilet trying to flush that baby down.  Even after I chopped it up.  She hit me.  She started screaming at me to look what I'd done and she fucking hit me.  Saying I'd ruined my life even worse now, this was WRONG, this was so illegal if anyone ever found out I'd be locked up forever.  She'd lose her little girl the way I lost my androgynous child.  She kept hollering that I'd gotten her in big shit.  That she'd be answering my questions, cleaning up my mess, for the rest of her life.  That I was such a fuck-up.  Ingrateful, a mistake.  A shame, a blemish, a fucking plague on her family.  Why couldn't I be more like Becky, she said.  My sister.  Becky got married first.  Becky got pregnant the right way.  Becky didn't get pregnant because she dressed like a whore and let the first guy that came along take advantage of her.  Dumb shit.  She didn't know.  He was my first.  My boyfriend, the one I had before him, couldn't get it out of me for two fucking years.  I'M NOT A SLUT!  I'M NOT!  I can't tell her that anymore.  She's dead, that bitch.  Where does she get off being dead?  I wasn't hard enough on her, though she got the worst of it.  And now she sleeps.  That bitch.  I wish I had the luxury of sleep, even eternal.  But I don't sleep, though I could.  I don't sleep because I don't want to get my hopes up.  Waking up is such a pain in the ass, and like I said, I can't stand to hurt anymore.  It hurts to wake up.  To know that I'm alive for another day of this.  Another day, another round.  My mind goes at another round of this boxing match at which I'm getting creamed.  Pounds me with morbid memories and with the happy ones, which are almost worse because those are the ones I miss, the ones I know I can never have back, not while I'm still in here, not ever.  Because I'm never getting out of here.  At least not while I can enjoy it.  I forget how long I have to stay.  I forget how long it's been, how long I have left to stay.  Every day feels like forever, the time behind and ahead of me seems to stretch on without end.  Every day, with the happy memories and the bad ones.  The happy ones making me sad because I want them back and can't have them, I try to hold on to those and make them real but it doesn't work.  The bad ones making me want to forget, want to kill myself, want to pry my skull open with my bare hands and claw out my brain and fucking splatter it against the wall, put my heel into it a few times.  I'd fucking hang myself with my shirt sleeve if I had one, or any place to hang a noose from.  Solitary confinement is cruel.  This tiny fucking white room.  Didn't I hear that white walls cause people mental stress?  It's not me that's crazy, it's this room that's making me this way.  It's this room.  I'm really fine, down below all that.  I always was.  And if they'd let me out of here, I'd be fine again.  If they'd even put me in a grey room.  I can't take another day of this.  They won't even let me keep my nails long enough to cut myself.  And they cut my hair short, so no chance of winding that around my throat.  WHY WON'T THEY LET ME DIE?!  Isn't it just costing them money to keep me in here?  They could have the room for someone else, some other poor wretched fuck they want to torture with his own insanity.  There wouldn't even be any blood to clean up if they'd just stop cutting my hair.  No.  That would take forever to grow back.  I used to have long, beautiful hair. . . .  It was dyed blonde at the time of the murders, because I remember I got blood in my hair and I had to wash it and watch the blood go down the drain with the water and shampoo.  And the smell of the blood overpowered the shampoo, no matter that I washed it twice, no matter that I used more shampoo than there was blood in my hair.  I didn't smell strawberries.  I smelled blood, and only blood.  No strawberries at all.  I tried to bury them, too.  The bodies.  In the field behind our house.  And that field should have smelled like clover and alfalfa, but all it smelled like was blood too.  Why do I smell it now?  I'm not bleeding, though I wish I were.  It's my mind, going at another round of me abuse.  FUCK YOU!  Fuck ME.  I wish he would.  God, no, that's what got me into all this trouble in the first place.  And he hates me.  He thinks I'm crazy.  I'm not, it's this ROOM!  He would never fuck me again.  Never will.  Never kiss me again, never hold me again, never tell me I'm not crazy again.  Because I am.  Because of this ROOM!  He's not gone, forever, but he's gone to me forever.  He's never coming back to me.  He thinks of me as a crazy slut.  But I'm not crazy!  Not really, not deep down inside.  It's this room!  I have no one, nothing, all day but my sanity versus my thoughts.  I watch the boxing match all day, I watch my sanity lose, helplessly, detached, like the ref, I dare not interfere because I don't know what to do, I don't know how to stop them from fighting, I don't know what they would do to me if I tried.  And I can't stand to hurt any more.  I can't take another day of this, another day of anything.  I want to die.  I WANT TO DIE.  But I can't.  I'm FORCED to face another day.  They won't even give me a fucking towel to throw in.  I just want to throw myself away.