A sun comes up.

A sun goes down.

A heart breaks.

But it never truly heals.

Reliving the past in every toxic breath, till there’s nothing left of my present that I am just a hollowed out shell in the form of a man.

In the form of a boy.

A broken boy. With porcelain hands, cracked and shattered against his chest. Trying to get to a heart, if there was ever one in the first place. This beating that’s inside me, is it a heart? Or a malfunctioning gear trying to disrupt my being?

If I am actually being.

Being requires living.

But I’ve been murdered.

Most murderers come in the form of flesh and blood, but mine was much less. Mine carried a knife made out of transparent air, stalking me in the form of omniscience.

It was everywhere but nowhere.

It was here.

It was there.

It plunged a dagger where I didn’t have a heart, writing letters into my skin. Writing the story that I could never have told.

The wind crashes and the tides shriek, the flames ground and the earth flares.

But I just stop.

Everything keeps going. Even when I stop.

I don’t know what I was hoping for. To be noticed when I just stop in the middle of tracks? And wait for the siren call of a train car?

Had I hoped for people to notice my existence before I actually lost it? Or was I ever actually there?

I watch with eyes that are no longer mine, seeing faces that no longer have to pretend. Faces that I can’t put names to.

My mind keeps slipping. Slipping down a slope of never-ending madness and infatuating condemnation. The undeniable residency of reality has implanted itself in the thick broad shoulders that are no longer mine—if they ever were mine.

Were they?

Were those my eyes? My lips? My nose? My arms and legs? My self?

Or was it the possession of mankind?

This or the latter?

The confusion settles deeper and deeper within me like a virus, but yet this virus isn’t meant to kill.

But to keep me alive.

To keep me alive so I can suffer.

Immortality. Is what I will suffer for eternity.

Endless breathing in a world without enough oxygen for me. Endless existing in a world where no one even bothers to know I exist. Endless seeing with eyes that just want to embrace the darkness of closed lids. Endless waking up to a world that will one day kill me anyway, so why not just sleep forever?

If I cry. Don’t worry.

It’ll be over one day.

Maybe tomorrow. Maybe today.

I can’t decide…but I’ll let my hands decide when I can’t take it anymore.

You want to know where’s my suicide note?

You want a suicide note? Did you look at the red ink writings on my wrists? Did you look at the pills in my back pocket? Did you look at my gnawed down fingernails? Did you look at the bags under my eyes? Did you look at the tears that stained the bottom of my pillows? Did you even bother to look?

Of course not.

That would be too much of a hardship on a life as perfect as yours.

I’m sorry to be the burden I’ve been. But it’s my birthright, my destiny to be a meaningless burden with no sense of direction in a world that tries to point me to the edge of a cliff so I can fall. I’ve resisted for so long but now I just want to fall off the edge. I’ve balanced on the edge of the fence for too long.

I think it’s time to jump.

When I pass bridges, I don’t think of it as a way to get to the other side of the land. But to jump off the edge to the other side that I’ve heard is really bright.

When I see knives, I don’t think of how they are able to make life easier to cook food. I think how it makes it easier to bear the pain on my wrists.

When I see pills, I don’t think of how they cure me of my disease. I think of how they cure me of my lifeline.

When I see myself. I don’t think of a strong boy who can hold up the world. I think of a boy who wants to die.

There it is.

The concept I’ve been chasing for years. Years upon years that has reached over many a millennia and many eons. 

I don’t want to live.

I’m miserable. Every second of every hour of every day.

People don’t always know that I feel like they always hate me and I’m just an option. They stabbed me with knives without actually knowing they did. But they are not my murderer. School has become a dreaded place for me. Every class is just another class with teachers that I can’t stand. But its not my murderer.

My murderer.

Is this town.

And everything that comes with it.

I don’t want to live here anymore. I want to move away.

Whether it be to a cloud somewhere far off in the sky where I can listen to angels sing. Or somewhere beneath the earth where I am burning in flames.

Anything to escape this existence that isn’t actually me existing.

This town is killing me.

I’m dead.

Buried 6 feet under.

I’m done with pretending to be ok.

When I just want to die.

I’m dead and still want to die.

Even ghosts want to die.

Now…you ask me if I’m ok…

I look at you with eyes that aren’t mine anymore that never were mine, and cry tears that also are not mine anymore and never were mine.                                      

I wasn’t ok.

I’m not ok.

I’ll never be ok.