Killing Myself

The person I hate, someone I blame: myself.

Devoid of meaning or direction. Moving in circles

Blindly searching for the destination. I’m a bookshelf

Without books. Incomplete. Lonely.

The only journals I keep are about killing myself.

 

Every afternoon is sleeping away pain. Unsure

Where tired ends and useless begins. Always

Aching for a point. A purpose. There’s no way to ensure

That tomorrow won’t be as rainy as the last. Plays

Are in two acts, but my life is just an intermission.

 

When does at risk turn into pathetic? At

What time do blood shot eyes and

Blood soaked thighs turn beautiful? Scat

And piss swarmed mind, saliva like sand.

Vomit covered lips are just remnants of dinner.

 

The person I love, someone I admire: myself.

Because some days I can will myself from bed.

Because the cuts have turned to faded scars.

Because not every meal ends up in the toilet.

Because I didn’t kill myself.

Because I survive.

 

This poem is about: 
Me

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