please
let me speak to you about fleeting things that keep me stitched and sane,
blood pours from my head, drips back down again
reminisce about the insignificant
reanimated, and buried with white roses
***** my vein
hide my face in tinted memories as i'm bleeding
rotting nest spent every season,
made me blind so project images onto my blank canvas
black out as i lose it
stream of red on violet roses
smell of death within my resting place
shedding hairs, **** the rest of me
killing hope, a devil's scheme that inadvertently
burned the roots of my family tree
i find the life hidden in this sickly stalling and the sharp pain of my suffering
so do i not deserve to live truly and peacefully?

Its persistence was the product of vengeful fantasies of fighting the abstract concept of injustice against it, regardless of its circumstances, regardless of the state it's in
****** up and dysphoric
but delusions wrapped in nostalgic plastic boxes
dissociation, nostalgia for things that never happened was the other half of its being
but then numbness from the disconnect between it and its own body, spreading to its capacity to feel anything
now to these longing daydreams

there is no longer anything that it wants
in this world or any of the other ones

there is nothing left to feel, be it touch or the old dissociative clutch

nothing to gain from pretending It exists, or writing in the first person,

my humanity is constantly in question
whether it's the cruelty of my fellow human
or these circumstances that have destroyed my self image,
put my young body through years of decay,
and killed my will to live

I tried to find the will to clean my skin, but it was spent on not collapsing
the irony in sacrificing my own health to maintain the means of surviving

I feel parts of my body decaying from years of neglect
the irony in slowly killing the one thing I've never stopped dreaming of loving some day

her legs are wrapped around my neck like an albatross, a punishment, severed and divorced from her attention
love is the strongest when the smell of *** is infused with all of love's embellishments
it's intoxicating, a smothering affection
and no release can take away the rotting love that's in my brain
it's not just ***, i think her flesh dissolved into my own

try to just hold still again
as I grip my own fingers, watching as they bend
trying to remind myself of what I can't forget
how can I be so brittle while day after day, taking every punishment one after the next
in every way I am so fragile, but cannot embody the essence of it

and I dig my knees into aging leaves, as they break apart in pieces, like severed limbs from the weight of me
where a thought sums up my own existence
a pairing of nature's bane and its own decoration shows me the difference in our senescence

thrown into deep water, feel my lungs fail
told to decay in a vague display of beauty
a block of cement and a struggle for breath cannot adorn a truly ugly way to die

in every way I am gentle, but I cannot express it

sometimes it's the nails on my fingertips, sometimes it's the skin bitten off of my lips, I'm laying in this bed as I'm eating myself alive
either out of desire to escape or a way to sustain some obscure feeling of existing despite living a life that only consists of rapid decaying

my stomach's mostly filled with my own finger nails and skin,
but no matter how many years pass, i can't seem to swallow myself whole

the me that exists today is just something i unwillingly regurgitate

i am sad and angry at the fact that no matter how hard i've tried, through years of completely decaying, to keep a core piece of myself alive in hopes to someday live completely

out of all the possibilities for my future, suicide is the simplest, and least painful of them all