This is my room, and this is my bed. These are the sheets. If I wasn't so fat, my mattress would be brand-new. It never carries more than my weight.
These are my things, these are the books I've read, these are the books I won't. These are my records, and this is my favourite (la-da-da).
This is a box of things that are broken. That, in there, is my heart.
The thing you hear is a dog barking. This stain will soon be cleaned. This is my door, it's closed now.
This is your picture. I drew a heart next to your face and autographed your name on it. I had to add a line crossing the heart later.
This is my corpse, it's still hot. Those are my unkissed lips, and this is my disgusting body. I should've placed a plastic bag over me whole, I shouldn't be allowed to be seen like this. I shouldn't be allowed to be this ugly. People will think I'm bald. They're wrong. This is just a bad hair day.
This is just a bad day, tomorrow will be a good one. You will eat your lunch while planning your daily schedule, your teacher will be happy because he got some pussy last night, mom and dad will be crying (and that's sad), but they can always turn my room into a library. Or a museum in my memory. Or an arcade with fun games for african children who are dying of starvation right now. I hope they find me tasty. I'm just afraid there won't be much left, cutting off the fat and the rotten. I hope I don't bleed too much in your mouth while you're chewing, that would be boring. If I taste bad, you can always call the cops. They're not too picky.
I have sent you my soul, it will arrive next month - international shipping is very expensive, you know. Here's a picture of me smiling.
No, I was lying. It's just me, laying. Close the door again, now. Don't wake me up.