I don't want to be disingenuous
perhaps using the word disingenuous isn't the best start
I am depressingly self-aware
so much so that it took me 45 minutes to write that line

I wish I was younger
just so I could live with ignorance a bit longer
and let it cradle me like a baby
I now understand why every movie follows the unknowing hero
We all want to relate
like one big game of the emperor's new clothes

I thought I was destined for greatness
to be fair I still do

I've been having a ton of existential crises lately
suppressing each one more than the last
it's like there is a little man inside of me
banging on the glass
begging to be let out
but I don't want to
because he strikes me as an honest little man
and I'm afraid I might not like what he has to say

One time my therapist asked me if I had ever thought about suicide
I don't think that's the right question
I think about it a lot
not for me specifically but others

I don't believe in God
not so much the creator thing
because who knows
but more the life after death part
because if there's truly nothing
if it really is black
then that might be better than the hell some people live in right now
death is better than torture, death is better than the loss of hope

What I'm saying is
maybe I'm afraid the worst thing that will ever happen to me is death
and maybe I'm wrong
but I'm afraid I won't live a life worthy of being lived

This isn't a happy story
I don't think it's even a story at all
It certainly has an end
and by virtue of being told
it has a beginning

It's the middle part that becomes murky
how do you a quantify a human life
the little intricacies that you can't even remember
the butterfly, whose wings
flapped a few too many times
leading me to this

Standing 746 feet above the water

I wonder if it would always end this way
if every fork in the road would eventually curve inward
if every call would remain unanswered
if every love would fade

I think that's the funny thing about objectivity
it exists in isolation

this is my story
or lack thereof

*Jump

Even if we were meant to be
I know you'd skip over me
like apple seeds

I can hear you bellowing from a room that rests just outside of my imagination.
My skin crawls
as the wind quietly whispers
begging me to open the window
so the thoughts that once crowded my head
can slide back into bed with me

Nothing ever hurts as bad as it did the first time
each sip of the bottle is easier than the next
as I slip back into unconsciousness

I can hear the rain
hammering on my roof
relentlessly
again and again and again
wishing that maybe the next drop
will be the one that breaks the camel's back

melancholy memories make me muse
perhaps I lost a piece of me when I lost you
and if everything
God willing
must end up right
than Perhaps it makes sense
that you visited me tonight

I feel the flames
sneaking past the floorboards
devouring my oxygen
encapsulating my space
occupying my attention

When the past comes knocking on your door
remind it why
it doesn't have a place in your home

I think that you can hear winter
The leaves whisper as they fall if you listen closely
The trees call out, not to say anything, just to be heard
And the birds voice their discontent with their absence





There's something about the ability to see my own breath
that I find to be a jarring reminder of my humanity