When do the hours become less daunting? When does my life become more wanting?
Which one is me? They all feel so forced. My view on everything is becoming too course.
Feelings balled deep in my chest, like a rabid animal dying in their nest.
Weeds all scattered, rigid. It's scared.
Does anybody even care?
I'll hold it close to my being.
Count the last breaths I'm overseeing.
And I'll take comfort in its unseemly demise,
Because now I caught a glimpse of how I'll die.