I like,
to spread,
myself,
so thin,
that you can,
almost,
see through,
my skin.
I have become,
crumbles,
at the bottom,
of a,
chip bag.
Basically trash,
not even,
worth,
a taste.
Am I really,
such a,
waste,
of space?
You told me,
I’m just a,
to be,
continued,
sitcom,
never to be,
resumed.
Is it,
really,
true?

𝑰‘𝒎 𝒈𝒐𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒕𝒐 𝒅𝒊𝒆.
This isn’t a game,
or just something,
to say.
𝐼 𝑎𝑚,
𝑔𝑜𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑡𝑜,
𝐝𝐢𝐞.
It’s not a joke,
this isn’t,
a play,
this is,
reality.
𝐼‘𝑚 𝑑𝑦𝑖𝑛𝑔,
right in front,
of your,
eyes.
This isn’t a,
𝒍𝒊𝒆.
I’m going to,
𝐝𝐢𝐞.

She bleeds,
the universe,
and dances,
on stars.
Has the scent,
of flowers,
and personality,
like that of a,
thunderstorm.
Her voice,
sounds like,
a song,
you’ve never,
heard before.
Wearing nothing,
but the lipstick,
she doesn’t,
own,
and a smile,
with curls.

Sometimes,
all I want,
is to kick,
and scream.
Why the hell,
did you,
do this,
to me?
Other times,
I’d much rather,
pretend it,
was all,
just a,
dream.
Couldn’t I,
have just,
been asleep?
Maybe,
it was,
a sick joke,
played on me,
one not,
so funny.

I see,
you seem,
to like it better,
when I,
tell stories.
So here is,
one for,
you.
Once upon,
a time,
you opened,
your eyes.
Early,
bright,
and full,
of dread.
Pulled yourself,
out of an,
unmade,
bed.
Tripped on,
the mess,
you left.
Stumbled down,
broke your,
neck.
Now you’re,
well,
dead.

Hey,
I know,
it’s been,
quite some,
time.
The thing that,
seems to last,
forever,
but we don’t,
have enough,
of.
Do you,
remember,
when we,
used to dream,
of the future,
that’s become,
the present?
It may not,
be exactly,
what we,
dreamt of,
but the clouds,
still make,
shapes.
Love always,
Me.

I always,
appreciate,
the plants,
that bloom,
when they’re,
not supposed to.
Because against,
all odds,
they grew,
into something,
brand new.