"To Be or Not To Be."

 I think I died.
The heart beneath my rib cage doesn't beat for anything anymore.
 My spirit's decaying and the smell has started to permeate every area of my life.
Though my skin is dark, I feel as pale as my bones and my back is beginning to bend like the arch of a comma mid sentence.
I am at the middle of the sentence of my life,
with the fatigue of a man who regrets his immortality.
I've grown old in a matter of months.
 My candle's burned out and I've stopped letting things bring me joy.

My body no longer shakes with the reverberation of laughter,
my eyes bleed more than my pen, because I've stopped writing and instead spend my nights crying.
Crying because as the casket is being lowered into the grave, all I see is me being entombed for eternity, and I'm screaming, "but I'm only seventeen!"

Somebody tell me how to breathe again.
I no longer receive oxygen, the air contains nothing but hydrochloric acid, burning my insides.
Sometimes I feel a surge of emotions in my chest, but then it passes and I've started to think that it is similar to phantom pain; it is the excitement and hope and happiness that I used to have before, flown away on the back of a raven, to be seen "nevermore."

I feel like Holden Caulfield. Except I don't aspire to be the catcher in the rye, I'm just hoping that I'll be one of the bodies that doesn't get caught and simply falls over the edge of the cliff.
But despite the dirt shoveled over my heart, I'm still looking to see if a daffodil might sprout up from the hole in my chest.