why is is that i am in love
with the very things that are destroying me?
i am in love with cutting open my skin
and seeing the bubbles of fat,
steadily dripping blood,
and moving tendons and blood vessels.
in some sick way,
seeing proof of my own mortality
and bodily processes
and the blood that i bleed
give me proof that i truly am alive.
i love destroying my body with whatever
drug, smoke, substance, alcohol,
whatever i can get my hands on.
i purposefully ingest copious amounts
of alcohol and drugs
all to feel light and breathless,
and ultimately,
to slowly,
slowly,
slowly
end my life.
i find fun and excitement in slowly killing myself.
its not sexual, but it is a fascination.
does loving to torture myself like this
make me a sadist or masochist,
or helpless to my own compulsive habits?
i dont know.
it doesn't matter, ultimately.
either way,
i will end up dead
at my own hands.
every timeline,
every frequency,
every path i can take:
they all lead to my inevitable,
premature demise.
YOU ARE READING
everything changes (but we all stay the same)
Poetryif my life could be replayed, if i could share my struggles over the course of time, if i could create such a thing, an endless recording of my life; it would be over hours and hours of overthinking. - (trigger warning for frequent, graphic descr...
