Dear Loser

prayer for death

As I lay on the cold sheets, moonbeams painting my face, I pray for death.
Not a peaceful death, no, not at all.
I want to suffer.
I want to run for my life, legs throbbing and chest heaving before my skin and bones are torn apart by a ravenous beast hoping to fill its endless pit of hunger.
I want to suffocate in a mist of unknown poisons, lungs collapsing and vision growing blurry, stumbling around like a mindless fawn before falling to ground, motionless.
I want to drown in an ocean of nothing yet everything, filling my nose and my mouth until I am one with the creatures and plants surrounding me, sinking into darkness.
My hands wander my body, softly grazing the unforgiving scars and burns.
Releasing my lust for pain and emotion is shown through lines upon lines etched into my own skin.
With every rise and fall of my chest, my heart begins to slow, my hands rest on my scarred ribcage.
Each rib has its own personal scar, perfectly imperfect valleys have been dug deep into the divots in between each bone.
My hands linger far too long for neglect but far too long to be considered remorse.
This is my love. This is how I feel.
This is how I breathe and live without feeling empty like the beast's belly.
This is how I cope with the constant dizziness from invisible mist that refuses to kill me.
This is how I refuse to shed a tear, for if one fell, I would be almost drowning  in my own pity.
Almost.
Because I deserve every slice, every cut.
Every ounce of pain this world has released upon me is nothing compared alongside the amount of pain and anguish I have inflicted.
I have earned a ruthless death but why wont the heavens above and the hell below decide to take me?
My body is a canvas with no more room.
I am painting on top of old art that deserves to be shown but is hidden by a sea of red.
As I lay on my own deathbed, I realize one thing.
One must not pray for death.
One must pray for an end to suffering.