This is me trying to convince myself that I’ve fallen out of love with you
because that’s better than the inability to
(for fear of facing the giant it would become)
This pain is from the gradual decay of something once radiant
turning into something now devoid
Not the cringe of the fingernails-on-a-chalkboard sound
coming from the out-of-tune strings of my heart
Death is a slow process and
suicide is a quick relief
(but both leave an empty space)
Maybe I just need to fall into something less destructive
Or less insubstantial
Or more enchanting
Or maybe even myself?
I haven’t been myself for a while
and that frustration makes me want to scream
I feel like a rat in the sewer
Except for I’m not a rat, I just thought I was
What I am is a liar
Because I’ve either fallen out of sight,
or have never even existed in this place
But either way it’s too much for my chest, for my nights, for my fingers, for my eyelids, for my paint and my ink, for the air that I breathe, and for you to take.

This is me saying goodbye, for one reason or another.