I am so sick of trying.

I stay faded,
within days of coasting
through smog, green tufts
of paper rolled into precision.
I am not happy.

All I’m good for is flicking a cigarette.
Tilted head while a drag ensues
dancing lip
and smoke,
and it is
disgusting.

The view is numbing.
I look out beyond balconies,
and I tremble.
I am so sick.
This constant human failure
of relationships have really
****** me over,
and I am to blame.

This heartbeat must be a bomb.
Explosions of sickness.
I can’t enjoy being alive.

Sometimes.
I do though.
Joy comes through
the cracked curtain,
sunlight setting on my morning skin,
between watching a puppy play
and the way
I look outside windows
only to close my eyes again.

There are times
when I want to
wander into a forest,
rope in hand,
and find the perfect tree,
a sculpted branch
beckoning noose,
to paint limp body
and carcass with
crows waiting to feast.

I cannot.
Fantasy is always distant.
I am not strong enough to live,
yet I am not strong enough to die.
What a ******* life.

Why?