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Nov 2016
I don't have a medical sickness.
I just want to throw up at your face.
I just want to **** the lead out of a thermometer to poison my vital organs slowly.
I just want to crack my head open to see if it's hollow or not; to see how millions of bland thoughts made its way inside my skull.
I just want to scream at your ears
As if I'm being cauterized... Or amputated... Or flayed by a demented surgeon-
As if strapped on a rusty hospital bed,
In a grimy and abandoned hospital building...

I just want to look at my blood sample under the microscope
to make sure it's not crawling with little red demons.
I just want to throw this bowl of hot soup at your paper-gowned skin when you come to check on me...
If I'm still worth reviving,
Or if I'm still worth killing,
Or if I'm still even worth gazing at.

I just want to lie in bed all day-
Feeling like a boiled carrot;
Feeling like a wet dog drooling away under the merciless sun;
Or a creature with no bones.
Feeling like a wilted flower, lost of all its glory...

I just want to stuff my mouth with so many pills and prescriptions,
And pretend to like the idea of dying, self-induced.
I just want to sweat this fever out.

I'm so sick of myself.
A poem I made last year.
Moissa
Written by
Moissa  18/F
(18/F)   
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