i have been fighting for so long:
pushing my way through the inevitability of life.

but my knuckles are red,
my legs are bruised,
and my heart rate continues to slow.

there's still so much left in the race,
but the thought of making it to the finish line
just isn't enough for my weak bones anymore.

isn't it so strange
that we carve into our skin,
we let drugs course through our veins,
because we don't love ourselves.

we make wishes upon our blood,
hoping maybe tomorrow
we'll be dead.

we are all so painfully tired
that we cannot bear to live in our bodies
for one more day