i can't help but think
i wish i had died a long time ago
maybe it's a form of suicidal ideation
at this point, who really knows?
some people say it isn't healthy
but i always knew it wasn't
better yet, who really cares? about me.
as i stand on the roof, high above
peering at the eerie drop below
death stares me right in the eye
it seems that people have eventually understood
how twisted and rotten i am
especially, terribly on the inside
it feels fitting, almost right
to finally be able to take my own life.
surrounded by my thoughts, i'm all alone
purged in endless contemplation, with fallen aspirations
i ponder about my lowering self-esteem
our relationship was always a tumultuous one
i couldn't bother to fix it, so it all went downhill
i lament on my past and present mistakes
there are just some things you can't change, some things you can't fix
no matter how much you try
i should know. i tried.
the world condemns you, damnation be with you in hell
leaving you to suffer in a prison
of your own making, a cell of your own craving
you ruined your only bright future
with your self-loathing, your deathly addiction
and now, there's nothing left
to do, to say
nothing that can convince me to stay.
delving deeper into the issues, i peel back the layers
how did it feel, when you realised
there was no one waiting for you?
except for the empty bed left behind.
how did it feel, when you had nothing left?
except for a sliver of hope, for the mercy of another.
and even as you begged and begged for forgiveness
an ode to the apologies, a song for the miseries
for him to offer you mercy and salvation
just know that god cannot forgive you,
for you cannot even grant yourself forgiveness
so do you truly deserve to be forgiven?
do you truly deserve to be loved?
i'd like to think the answer was maybe, someday
but i know you'd rather take a no.
henceforth, you are forced in an act of crucifixion
despite your earnest wishes, your heartfelt prayers
they are meaningless to a corpse
a withering piece of flesh
with an unthinkable brain to boot
the only thing keeping me alive is my beating heart
unwilling to give up, unwillingly ticking away my time
as i scramble to grasp the loosening threads in my fingers
moments of my life dash past, forever lost
unable to be recovered, unable to be remembered
in the essence of things, they become meaningless.
i think deeply, i must end this suffering
so i drive this blade through my chest,
i pierce this knife against my skin
my skull lying on the pavement,
where my fallen body meets
and this is where my soul finally leaves
a bullet to end my troubles, in a world i could never win
a sacrifice to end my struggles, in an existence filled with sin
my blood kisses the floor, in a riot of passion
crimson, crimson red, my love
the familiar iron stench that rots my lungs
while the cold, hard ground folds my insides out
splattering an ugly stain, for all to see
what was wrong with me
the coroner declares my body's condition
parades it around, with a simple word in the description
"death," is what they call my state.
thus they decide they must hold a small gathering
in recognition of my memory,
a little something to remember me by
a ceremony to send the decayed and decomposed away
to honour their last living moments, up until they died
whatever that means, i don't really care
they never really recognised me, for who i was
i could never show them my true colours
i could never get them to love me, like how i loved them
i wished for their validation, to give me a reason to live
but i received none, even as the days passed on
maybe people will care a little more, once i'm dead.
tucked in a corner of the fields
with rocks aligned in the shape of my former name
with flowers to decorate my final resting place
with pretty words uttered, but none left for me
my heart must ache miserably
tormented in the travesty of devastation
for they are not the ones i wished them to be
couldn't they have told me these lies when i was alive?
why must they wait until i'm gone,
when they regret the words they can never take back
when they regret the things they never dared to speak
it's already over, the funeral ends.
the aftermath never stops. it simply carries on.
"it wasn't suicide..."
the family murmurs, distressed with the information
"it must have been a mistake!"
the crowd hollers, indignant about the revelation
for my death, you offer the blame to no one
you tell yourself over and over again
convincing yourself, that very lie
which you seek to base the accident on
is now forming into the truth, sinking its treacherous poison
it was no one's fault.
maybe it will help you sleep better tonight
to believe it wasn't your fault
that your dearest friend died,
to know it wasn't your fault
that they would dare to conceive the very notion
of commiting their own suicide.
ha, doesn't that sound about right-
how could they ever think to die?
(27 March 2025)