I can feel this black pool of bile in the bottom of my lungs. Whenever I take too deep a breath, it's there to gargle in my chest and remind me that even if you bury the past its decomposing corpse will cause something to grow. I'm convinced I live life between suicidal thoughts and I'm too afraid to admit it to anyone expect the 30 people who will read and then forget about this poem. So go ahead, close the page, this will be here whether you care or not. That's the reassuring thing

I just don't get why living seems to rest heavy on the back of my neck, pushing my face into the soaking, black mud. I can still breathe out of the corners of my mouth if I smile wide enough. I think I can manage if I try hard enough.