Methods of self annihilaion

Of all my vices, the one I nurture, the one I hold to my breast,
the one I cling to in those lustrous hours of the night is this,
This inexorable gravitation to pain, to finger paintings on dusty windows that are tried by rain,
to open wounds, and obdurately calloused souls, to washed out dreams of wide-winged flight,
I wait at the shallow mouth of the throbbing ocean, I pick up what's washed ashore,
Indulge in the lip-biting, blood-sucking, pleasurable pain,
Of broken shards of withered bits, of malnourished smiles,
I lay them out in my lap, like once-proud flowers, ousted from branches,
I weave them together, as they rustle against my fingers, dried and lifeless,
They cut me, they split my skin, I'm sore, so sore
And when I'm done, I see the garland yet undone,
Dead petals in the wisps of my hair, between my teeth, staining my fingers,
So I stand again at the ocean's converging lips, collecting fragmented hopes,
Finding yet again seaweed and brittle bones.... Inexorably hopeful still