untitled/freeform
[written 2 days after my breakup and 3 days before my hospitalization in 2019]
my words slip through hands eager for silence
like silk, sand, smoke,
right through the gaps between your fingers..
leaving me breathless from the failed attempts to make my words stick
it's okay, i waste more breath by waking up than i ever will trying to rebuild your soul
-
so "edgy"
so "goth"
so "emo"
but i'm not.
and neither is the ink in this book.
oh god.
i'm SO cliche.
cliche for saying i'll write my own fucking eulogy, order my own casket, lay down, and die in it
cliche for saying it sounds so cliche to say i'm different
the difference between those people and people like me?
dressing in all black and crying about how much your life fucking sucks, singing to screamo songs about hell and the antichrist
they fantasize death, they look for it like it's a lost treasure
and a miniscule handful of them actually find it, right?
and then there's the difference.
when you truly want to pass on, you won't find death.
death finds you.
first it'll be a serious illness at the age of 10, and after that it's becoming prey to human predators
it's having everything you ever wanted, just to lose it
constant weight on the chest, unending replays of the times you thought you finally got it right.
find yourself sitting near the highway, ready to walk through the dull palette of metallic blurs in front of you.
or lying down in his clothes with some no name brand melatonin bottle in your hands
you can't truly wish people well if all they've given you is hell.
- A.H.
