I have grown sick of the same beat inside of my head; of picturing myself lying on the floor in a crimson pool of my own making, of picturing myself finally silencing my thoughts with a bullet to my head or the cool kiss of concrete. The thoughts never stop pounding on my front door, they use the splinters of my sanity to drive stakes into my head like plots in a graveyard. The frantic knocking has the elegant rhythm of knees clacking, knuckles cracking, thoughts crashing, and swords clashing against my skin. My thoughts are beating against the shore and the tide is rising. It is choking me to death, but I hardly notice, for I have been holding my breath too long. Perhaps this is a sign it is time to greet Death with wide arms instead of palms held open as I have for so long. Maybe it is time to accept I have become nothing  more than Death's ***** *****, to resign myself to a life of  being ****** when for so many nights I have been ****** over and ****** up. Perchance the hands of  the clock have crept down to the moment in which I greet Death with a wide-eyed grin of infatuation when for so long we have spared each other but the sidelong looks of star-crossed lovers. I ache for the day when Death and I's mouths may finally meet and I may at last stop worrying about choking on the black waste of my mind and body. Life caught me up in its arms and held me so tightly I lost my grip on reality, and I know one day Death will claim me once again and hold me to its heart six feet underground.