With trembling cold feet,
and tightly clasped palms,
An emptiness fills me.

Organs spill out,
tumbling and mumbling amongst one another,
in a broken disjointed mess.

In the recesses of life,
the hotlines are dead,
and so will I, be too,
soon am I to be put to bed.
All alone. Quiet.

Whispers, the cries of those who suffered,
under this wretched, unwanted being.
The graverobbers in our own skin,
shifting, waiting to escape.
To pry loose, to hurt.

Forget. Dream. Sink.
This modern day suicide,
in every sense of the world.
With my eyes closed, and a head empty,
I am not loved.