It’s hard for me to explain why,
but all I’m thinking about
is taking my own life.
Or maybe a slow death is what I deserve, for I’ve committed a few crimes.

Do you want to know the funny part?
My life is actually quite a blast— filled with joy and people,
filled with love and lovers,
filled with disappointments and accomplishments, mirroring each other on a performance evaluation.

But none of it matters to me—
not the success, not my degree, nor the money in my bank account.
None of it.
Nothing at all,
but all of it at once.

I want to go to sleep and never wake up again. I want to close my eyes
and finally say my farewells
in all five languages that I speak,
doomed to hear what they say behind my back,
but pretending I’m deaf so no one bothers me again.

I’m scared of the future and what’s coming, unhappy with the present, and
terrified of the past—
haunted forever, it feels like.

I love my parents,
and my dear friends,
who are the best
and the sweetest people ever.
But this is bigger than all that.

Bigger than my grades in phonetics,
where they fail us for the pleasure of doing it.
They say there are fewer and fewer places for masters,
so why not ***** you over,
and leave those empty seats to the geniuses who fit in academic boxes— just so they don’t starve to death,
and so that they can feed their future innocent children.

This is a fight between me and myself,
since I remember.
Since I was a little child—
unloved by my own peers,
misunderstood by my parents,
sexually abused by God’s messenger.
God’s messenger, huh—whose job is to make us good, not stain us with ***, and leave us wondering why, how, when, and again how,
for eternity to come.

I want to open up my wrists and bleed to death.
I want to feel the pain before I’m long gone and turned to dust—
for the pain will serve as a punishment
for my sins committed in the autarchy of this evil world we live in.

I want to end the hierarchy society has imposed on me,
on my peers, my fellow poets—on Alan Turing, who saved a couple million people and was sentenced to death for having loved a man and his *****.
Oh no, wait—he chose to swallow pills,
and maybe force himself to like women
for the sake of the natural and unnatural state of mind
Queen Elizabeth II saw fit.
Oh **.

I mean no harm to anyone—
not the people who loved me,
nor the ones who hated my guts. My guts—I sometimes hate myself.

I mean no harm to my parents,
who loved me dearly and raised me to grow into the sad lover, seeking only the love they’ve shown me.
I could talk here about Freud and his theories,
but I think that’s unnecessary,
just like his existence.

I mean no harm—
not even to my ex, who at some point
showed feelings and cared for me dearly,
before he turned into a monster, haunting me down every time I try to love another.

I mean no harm to my friends who helped me get up, over and over and over and over,
when I let other men decide my destiny and take over my decisions.

I want to be gone before Judas’ third eye appears and haunts us for having believed in Jesus and his authority over humankind.

I want to be selfish for once,
and listen to my inner child—
for I have no desire to live No more.

I want to be an angel,
fly to places and keep
an eye on you all—
protect you from Lucifer when he comes down to reach your throats.

I want to look pretty in white, angelic,
pure—
like ****** Mary, I might.

I want to dream the undreamable,

for it matters to me no more.