I have a death grip on this razor blade against my wrist,

praying to whatever god will listen that I slip, wishing I had a nervous tick.

Then I’d have someone or something else to blame it on so it wouldn’t be my fault.

We’re the salt of the earth?

Being drug behind a stalled out hearse?

A family in disbelief, “There’s no way they’d do this! It must be a mistake!”

Tell me that as I sink deeper into sorrow and produce this smile - so fake.

There’s a lot to learn, an image ingrained which we’ve been told is to help us succeed.

I’m only halfway home and I’ve already halfway loaded the gun,

only a pound of pressure is what’s needed for us to proceed.

Numbers exist to call as a stranger pretends to care,

their eight hour shift almost over so they can delete the buzzing in the air.

I’ve never really wanted toast in the tub until I saw what it could do,

I picture myself, my life, my beginning and my end,
and all I can think about - is you.

You are my beacon, my comfort, the reason I breath,

A piece of fate that’s fallen out of it’s trajectory and landed you with me.

I love you. I love you. I love you. Again, again and again.

But now it’s time to sleep, and hope that the darkness isn’t there or selfish enough for me to keep.