I do not know why they call it dying alone.

My sins,

lying beside my cold lifeless body decide to claw out my heart and devour it in one single bite. This way, everyone can just dwell on my mistakes, never looking past them to realize that I had any life beyond them.

My accomplishments,

although sparse and small, quietly slide under the crevice of my back. They hope that no one will notice them, so that they won’t have to pretend to glorify themselves in any sort of significant façade.

Under my hand,

you’ll see all that I have loved. You’d have to look close, because all that I have loved only fits under my palm. Hold them, so you can feel the purge of their overwhelmingly rare warmth.

You’ll need not to examine closely when it comes to all I have hated,

Hate, lies in the tears of my eyes, the curling of my fist, the snarl in my lip. It knows no boundaries. Sick of all the ignorance, the deeds of monstrosity, the pestering percentage of this cracked up world. It’s prevalence remains resentful to every distastefulness towards pragmatism by the common evil. It never is afraid to snap at the mush-brained.


When you shut the wooden door of eternity, my name will not whip away into the silent wind. My dust will always be spit amongst the tongue tips of many snakes.