I sometimes need a bite.
I sometimes bite back,
but rarely.

Speckled crescents cover my arms,
they even creep up my shoulders
and my neck.

I'm black and blue
for you,
as I have been
for time unkept.
Time and time again.

Pour me.
Poor me.

My mother wept.

Sunlash tangles in my eyelights,
my fog breaths up the windshield.
I'm shifting lanes and changing gears.
I'm feeling
good.

A whisper tries to gnaw at my bones,
it begs me to appease.
My foot gets heavier
and I'm flooring the pedal,
matting to the metal.

Tachometer syncs up with my heart,
I'm in tachycardia and falling apart.
I lost my exhaust.
My head won't start.
My wheels are falling off.

I'm a screaming freight knuckle, white training it.
Barreling down
some small town.

I crack a smile and rub my face.

The whisper
still whispers,
and I'm still feeling

good.

I'll touch your blue jeans
without consent.

I'll slide my hand up
the back of your leg and
really dig my nails in.

I'll use both hands
to pull you apart,
to draw you closer and
up against my heart.
Up against my chin.

Shirtless,
skin to skin.

You'll be starved for breath,
I'll be just starting to begin.

Our pace
will race
and together
we'll sin.

Heartbroken I'll ponder
our little origin.

A fashion show,
a shared love of expression.

Come and
come again.

I imagine that at some point before I **** myself, that I'll have the indignation to jot down a somewhat substantial list of all my usernames and passwords.
I find it romantic to picture people performing digital
archaeology on my life, logging in to my various websites
after I'm dead,
and trying to decipher when and why it all went wrong.
Trying to figure out what led me to making the decision
of suicide, what drove me to some kind of psychological
breaking point.

That indignation,
to think that I'd be worthy of such a
romantic notion,
is rather sickening to the me that sits here
still alive.
To the me
clacking away at some gaudy mechanical keyboard.

What makes me so royal?
Why would I be worthy of
an archaeological, metaphorical dig?
People die constantly.
I'd just be one more.
One more forgotten story,
one more unfulfilled potential.

One more
"gone too soon."

No one gives a ****,
not really.
People love me, sure.
Family, some friends.
A few ex-lovers.
Everyone has their own life to live.
I'm not as important as I think I am,
neither are you.
Or anyone, for that matter.
It's just human nature getting the best of us
that makes us think otherwise.

People have a right to go on with their lives,
I guess just as people have a right to choose death.
I'd hate to get in the way of either one.
It's a fool's errand to imagine I even could,
or would.

Maybe there will be a little list of my passwords,
reeking of self-righteousness.
maybe there will just be a pile of ashes
with a air of a final clarity,
of a 'coming to my senses.'

Maybe I'll live forever, I mean...
So far, so good.

Persistence may sometimes be sickening,
yet never quite as sickening
as suicide.