He asked me why I wasn't dead,
what selfish reason am I alive for anyway?
Thinking my rotting flesh can handle anymore wasted nights or blackened lungs.
Being told of a brighter future, yet my vision is blurred with a fish eyed lense and the way forward only sinks me deeper into its hell.
This hell, it burns me.
I feel it twisting my veins,
tightening my chest and wishing for death.
It brings pulpitations to my already cracked heart, as it creeps through the cracks which fill me with a roaring flame that doesn't bring the heat that might warm up a happy family on Christmas night. It is the burnt out ashes when they've all gone to bed and the gift wrappers left shredded at my feet..