I felt like I cried too much just then, with my head in your lap and my cheeks stinging with salty tears.

I want to die today, but I can't bring you with me.
I can't bring you with me in the bleak narrow curvings of my soul absent doubt.
I hate hating myself so much.
When I look in the mirror I judge from predisposed and painted self doubt.
I trim my frame with unrealistic absurdities that make matters worse by setting them self up for failure to begin with.
I do not think one should continue to prevent them self from cutting off their own airflow to preserve another being's feelings.
Though the act of suicide is selfish, and abstaining from the act to keep others from blaming themselves is in fact selfless; however perpetual self loathing is almost as demanding a lifetime of guilt that comes out of wishing you could have done something to help.

I sit on the inside looking out. And more of the time I am perched in there, I am looking around, from within.

Disolving the interior and remembering the good old walls.

What happened to those willful walls and forgiving storage areas? Nothing is ever good enough; like a mingy white room-once coated twice, but over time has been repainted in folding colors, creating a texture that was not meant to gain, nor pleases as a result.

I want all of the excuses and laziness and hastiness to melt away and the chaos that sits with darkness at the corners of everything, to fall away as toxic as they are, and I want to sit outside of myself and watch in praise and humble patience.

These Lines:
etched and edged,
well-distinct and ill-defining,
clarifying and disguising,
multifarious characters,
multivariate natures.
nefarious and courageous.

thickened thinnings,
straightforward curvings,
appointed and unanointed,
given, taken, and then
redrawn, misshapen.

both boundary and limitations,
goal reached, unending destinations,
a human's realm of indefinite definitions,
These Lines:
mappings of his domain,
recordings of his failings.

my great divide,
testimonies to my endings,
visual markers of
virtuous past successes,
virtual future failures invadings.

How can they be both simultaneous?

These Lines:
double etched and sword edged,
outbound-triumphant, defending,
inbound-plaintive, wailing,
both an indefensible and defensive blade,
cutting, both ways.

*PostScript:
The twenty eight of the month of Feb-rue-ary,
clear enough ending to the muddiest, contrary,
turgid month of the ifs of a man's life.