First you slurp water,

and from inside, it slurps you:


isn't that called drowning?

I have to forget.

That's all I can do
if I want to be anything
like I used to.

When I was whole,
when my heart was in one piece.

A few months before
your careless love destroyed me.

They're all just so sad and broken in their own ways
     And they have flocked to each other because together,
              The suffering feels smaller
                   Not so big
                       Not so daunting
                             And to them,
                                     I'm the deep pool
                                           where they can pour their pain into
                                                And never have to think of the possibility
                                                  Of
                                               a
                                     flood
                                   And
                         I
                 Am
Drowning

An unconscious self sabotage
The reprimanding echo
A bed of invisible nails

Without the smallest clue
What was this discomfort of?

Exhaustion, a cage without doors.
Menial tasks turned impossible
Stumbling around all dazed

Dressed to the ninth in neglect
I keep forgetting to live.

My dear, I am writing you from the depths of my solitude, to ease your worried heart and mind. Loneliness has been gnawing at my terrified flesh as of late. Yet, my only wish is to remain alone. Unseen and untouched. I think this is pure joy, or the illusion of it. But I am content at this very moment. I promise.

You might think that I am slowly sinking. That I will soon reach the bottom of the ocean, and you fear it is too dark and solitary there. That I might not survive my own madness— not this time, not by myself. That I cannot swim nor do I intend to learn how to. That I willingly gave my body to Poseidon as a peace offering. That I finally made my peace— not with God, but with a god nonetheless. That I am all swallowed up. That I will not see you again. That I will die lamenting your forgotten smile. That Azrael, the angel of death, weeps over my doom. That I have died long ago—
But how can a corpse feel such emotions?
How do I tell my stubborn heart that it is not beating for you any longer?
How do I comfort my frantic soul by lulling it to an eternal sleep?
—And if so then tell me, my dearest one, don’t I deserve serenity, too? After burning for a decade, yearning for a safe haven. Do you think I finally deserve to rest?