Is it okay that I want to die?
Is it okay that the mere reason of my existence is to feel pain?
Is it okay that the stone cold bricks make me feel home now?
Is it okay that I don’t want to go on?
Is it okay that I wish I were never born?
Is it okay that I want to be embraced by that hard thick rope?
Will it be as soft as your hands or your cheek?

I feel it closing upon me now.
I see it squeezing me out of my blanket.
I know it wants to come still,
All the walls I call home strike on me.
I understand that my becoming was based on pain yet again.

I saw it leaning down on me.
Its shadow fell upon me.
I liked the sun.
But it didn’t go away, no.
At least I know how it feels though.
But no.
It wasn’t as soft as your hands nor your cheek.