It’s amazing how something so simple can be taken out of context so easily.
Now I paint with crimson red, tracing the delicate edge of my skin.
I don’t want to die, I don’t want everything to end.
Yet this is so freeing, the intoxication of it.
I’ve been awake for three days,
I close my eyes to rest and I’m flooded with thoughts.
The ideas of what I can do with my life,
The pressures I put on myself to get there.
Knowing I worry a few good people in my life,
The anticipation of the lectures that are repetitive,
Of how apparently people know what I need to hear or what I need to do.
If they were right I would be better now wouldn’t I?
And everyone thinks it’s so easy when in reality if they even knew how much it takes to even do simple tasks.
How the judgment feels when I do the things I love,
It’s hypocritical.
Almost poetic how one moment they need me to have all the answers and the next they’re pious.
I see the world for what it is,
Maybe because I’ve been closer to death I consider him an old friend.
It’s true the floors are painted red with dark red,
Frankly I am exhausted and have no more energy for well anyone.
Now I just want to work as much as I can so I can disappear.
I’ve given people chances, some too many.
Now I truly am addicted to being alone,
The safety of it, the comfort of knowing there are no eyes peering into my soul so they can rip it out.
My uncle had the right idea, he warned me long before of how people were.
I often wondered why he preferred to live a nomadic life,
I understand now.
It’s peaceful.