on a post it

i'm paying too much to live.
life has expensive written all over my
skin. every day a part of me goes down with the sunset, and the sunrise
is as faded as the color of my hair.
 piling of money sits on the inside of my stomach, growing to tumors
i have to remove. the quest to buy for my value, and the value
is more than i can afford.

my smile takes exhaust over me,.
probably better tucked under dimness, where this introvert plays.
down the street of my youth
i left behind silence. no longer on mute,
i will give you the loudest headlines.
ambition depends on stability, and practically speaking -
to wake up with the desire to live
is a better toast.

rose petals i have collected still smooth over pages,
their soaking fragrance,
like love i once treasured still in the back of my throat,
sometimes in gasps i feel his name,
desire to fire, but no.
i have maintained the will to hurt.
i am gravitational. all the idiosyncrasies for you to sample from.
take one dose today, leave parts for your next adventure.

there are only a few nights i taste
chamomile tea and warm the
mind of its of bareness.
the most expensive road to recovery cannot
fulfill me. i am a doctor's worst note and their best
experiment. and the music keeps repeating, and i keep
drinking one pill after another.
somewhere in there i
s the reminder i live.

hospital visit no.5 (suicide crescendo)

listen to the drop of a maddening smile, like pins
in hush night.
where to, on the staircase,
splat forth
in desire.
free mind! look at me now daddy,
everything is mine to
stop and conquer.
laugh and surrender.

conversations on the sky - with my hands as the
firmest destroyer, we take past fight or flight. is this how life tastes at
the end of the chapter.
pupils' ruby horizon, convulsion clings to grasp what the
lungs no longer.
and so to weep.
I've trained to fight
survival.

come to, pulsation in lights, and
my head just wants a belly’s warmth to curl to.
wrap its solitude in bellowing
howls.

the freedom of fires’ escalation,
do not address me weak, nor bold.
take your rational spoons medication,
black tar on my skins’ hold -
and fill your selfish hope to its brink of finale.
there is no more for you to speak of.
not of my endless body.

hospital welcome

static seizes. wind sweeps a low hum of ants to crawl electric.
shock on cotton sheets wraps its steady hold. choke hold on
physique. frail outline, there's a future lifeline dripping into me. IV
grips like a scorned lover.
i should know.

scream as
reckless, high on organs belting gory. and yet, there's light
throughout the body. somewhat of a moon awakening probing
me out to breathe.

nesting dolls reminiscent, i keep coming to parts. there's 3 of my heads and
where are my legs? this manic fury takes to dance. i would cut the chords to
end their saving, but the nurse polishes ready, and my hands have
abandoned. i wonder
does she beast with her life the way
she forges into mine.

nourishment to survival with its tyrant entry, too loud for cures,
flooding in the same manner of illness,
boastful, arrogant with hell to raise. it tastes a menace to swallow each dose.

so what comes after medicine and the depravity of
suicide.
is this the exhalation of will, or one to lies:
where faith gives
its bitter hand, is it better to come to the sun's promise of
burning bright tomorrows' and the return of the
sweetest skies. or do i
lay down to the shackles of familiarity. that which holds so
loyally.

Persephone was damned to the throne, in the shadows'
of Pluto's desires. to rebirth! the selfish
cries of duty, my living, is a life of commodity.

to leave this refuge of hope -
i have a thousand tries waiting, for nothing is as loud
as a next episode. 

well. nothing is happening. there is no movement. no upward, no moving on. it's almost as if someone has glued me in one spot and in my head the days keep repeating themselves over and over, along with every little venom that comes with it.

red roses can turn to pink

i can turn from cold to scorching warrior.

i can end it, just as quickly as i started it.

my birthday is almost here.

what a great transition into a new topic.

endings.

beginnings. 

reborn.

• am i selfish for wanting to end my life
• who does it belong to and who do i owe my survival to?
• a woman set herself on fire to end her pain. 
• how selfish are you to want a person to hold on just, one, more, bit.
• hold on so you can feel comfortably at ease a life you hold no control over continues
• are you shredding your insides
•  some people are too far gone. they want to be gone. what more is there.

Customer service was a bitch today.

+ I can lay in a corner for days and not be awake. In these 4 walls I am occupied. My body somehow molds out of shape and into whatever form the brain takes and sometimes I find myself to be a beautiful expensive chandelier, or a rotten couch with cigarette stains. It doesn't quite matter which one. Both are flawed, but have their place. I sip my tea and look as dainty as my mother wishes, but it never quite matches my interior - ragged, scarred, metal bits, and leftover lovers infiltrating scar tissue. It's okay though nobody has to know. That is until they get heavy with ambitions and all the oceans come crashing down.

+ Waves are slicing through my lungs. Right on schedule love. You have come down exactly when I felt you would. The sun is berating through my curtains, red thick - resembling blood clots, firing away at my retina. Too much, too bright, too risky. And I wish I could erase the sky only to leave it panicking. Black, distant, and comfortably in tune with me. 

+++

Purposeless floating. Lifelessness continues.

"Just give it some time" is not an option anymore, and when you don't value what you have, you have nothing. You are a robot. You are full of movement, and you take care of your responsibilities like everyone wants you to, but there is nothing at the core.

Surviving.
I mean, that's what everyone wants me to do. For what though? I am surviving only to eventually die? I am surviving only to eventually move in to a nursing home? What am I surviving for? Death is certain. I am miserable. Everyday. It's a struggle. I try, and I put on my pretty people face and I put on my trendy clothes and I walk and I work and I buy things. I pay my taxes, I recycle. I live as far as I can.

Contradiction.
I think the only time I am truly happy is probably when I'm sleeping. Though I never feel it and I don't remember my dreams

This is depressing. This is me.

Hope has given me nothing but disappointment. It has led me nowhere and given me nothing but misery. Hope has given me the impression things will get better. That perhaps tomorrow will be a new day, things will somehow change.

But it never does. It's always the same feeling, the same battle, the war is never won & I am running low on ammo. I keep torturing myself with hope.

Sometimes I think it would be easier to just end it. People talk of heaven and hell. I'll tell you what hell is. Hell is this. Hell is life. It is being a prisoner inside your own mind. It is the feeling of wanting to be free, knowing you can never achieve that freedom. That is hell. At least, this is my hell. Peace comes later. Peace comes after it's all done. Heaven comes when you finally let go.