You make death seem like the ultimate thing to wish for
On a shooting star,
Or at 11:11
Or on whatever it is people wish on these days.
You make slicing my thighs seem like the ultimate prize
At the end of a long day.
You make death seem like it’s the only thing I need to aim for.
I don’t dream of what my life could be anymore,
The job I could have,
The family I could love
Rarely crossing my mind.
When people ask me where I want to be in 5 years,
Or even 3,
I hesitate.
Wanting to be 6 feet under the stars,
Maybe in 5 months,
Preferably in 3,
But these are secrets you dare not speak of,
So I simply reply
Happy.
Maybe in Washington,
In a port town,
Or in Colorado in the mountains.
I don’t dream about love anymore,
Or at least I try not to,
But my god do you make it hard
Because,
Well,
I love you.
Instead I try to dream of cars,
Crashing into me,
It gives me the same sensation as dreaming of you,
But it doesn't hurt as much,
Or as last as long.
I find it hard to find the thrill in living.
Maybe I’m just not doing it right yet,
But right now I find a certain thrill
In hiding my scars,
In pretending to be fine;
I like to give others enough information
That if they tried hard enough
They could figure me out,
To see if anyone thinks I’m worth the effort.
Update: I’m not.
