I know that I’m small
And tend to build structures too tall,
They inevitably weaken;
Crack, crumble, and fall.
The ruins in this beaten chamber,
A reminder- a cratered scar,
A place for me to sink into the filth
and idly crawl.

To hide from heights of hope,
To run away from your calls.
Get rid of you in thought,
And heart

Abandon all.

-SLuR

I think of dying a lot.
Almost every day it seems.
My mind is consumed by the thought that,
Possibly,
one day,
I will simply cease to exist.
My brain doesn't understand,
it cannot comprehend,
the brevity of these thoughts.
Not existing isn't an option, it goes against human instinct.

A part of me hopes there is life after death,
That with all the possible universes and timelines,
We can simply switch from this one to the next.

The anxious part of me,
the largest parts of me,
panic at the idea of having no air or sun or life.
Nothing, not even awareness of the absence of something.

As empty as I am, or have been,
I still fight.
I fight to stay alive and to experience all of the wonderful moments that exist in this life.
I want to travel to unknown Italian islands and see the way the sun sets in Thailand.

Why am I stuck in this bubble, this little corner of Earth, when there is so much more to explore?

I am afraid of dying, without ever having the opportunity to live.

I have nothing to do.
I feel hopeless, I wanna be motionless.
What is it called? Comatose?
Fold my thoughts like origami,
to keep me as a zombie,
the antithesis of a human body,
an empty shell.
Life is hell.
I yell it loudly.
No one hears me. I sing my sorrows softly.
What once was a cry is now a hymn that calms me.
Crawling like a zombie, dealing with insane body aches,
coping with brain aches, not well, I release control as my brain breaks.
Scared to have a child as I fear hes destined to face the same fate.
Pills under syrup on a pancake, minimum wage until you can't do it.
Staring at themselves in the mirror screaming just do it.
If songbirds only sung when they cried,
and only cried when they hurt,
and if I liked to listen, me or the world, who would be worse?

We're almost touching.
we were walking side by side,
you're talking about cabs in your hometown.
I can feel the gravity of your hand, calling my fingers
whispering "it's alright."

We're touching but not quite.
you held my shoulder to protect me from the passing cars.
and for the first time in a long while, I felt so fragile.
In this world where I find it hard even to breathe,
you believed me.

I almost said it.
All I need is one ounce of strength to tell you every single thing that I have ever felt about you.

I want to find home in your collarbones.
Would you be kind enough to let a stranger in?
I want to seep in your being because I'm cold.
The world is harsh and my cracks are aching.

Almost.