Air Conditioning

Life

Breathing is a crime I commit day by day,
Fighting the urge to strike a match and pull a jar over my body until all the oxygen is consumed and I'm left there,
In my final moments redeemed.

Living still isn't something I would want if I had a choice.
Though if someone were to ask I would never say,
I wish I was never born.

It's been true for the longest time,
I wish I hadn't had the sin of life forced into my body,
Wish I had passed as unwelcome blood on clothes or
An unfortunate loss before first breath.

Wish I had never been given the opportunity to grow,
To mature,
To be.

I am hurting.

This is a simple truth in many ways,
And yet my accidents feel less accidental when in the aftermath I don't mind the pain.

I wish I hadn't been born so sweet,
Then less people would have taken bites of me,
Or gotten addicted to my flavor until I am nothing but the crumbs of what I once was.

I wish I hadn't learned to be resilient,
Otherwise I may have abandoned sin ages ago,
And I wouldn't breath another breath
Wishing I wasn't.

I smile, sometimes, and I feel happy.

It doesn't mean this feeling,
Thrumming under my skin like blood,
Or waves in a cave,
Goes away.

Its a rodent,
A slime,
That slinks into the crevices of my mind to hide from the lights in my life,
And then it returns to pester, bother, harm
The moment the light slips away again.

I'm tired of hurting people.

The urge to carve myself apart has been stronger lately, and I don't know what to do with it.

The more I feel small hurts the more brave I get to face rougher ones,
And after all I do deserve it.

I am a sinner.

I wish to breathe my final breath in peace knowing I won't hurt anyone.

Maybe that means I have to hurt everyone.

I know if there is a day that I decide I want to leave, I will pick fights.

I will poke at the sensitive wounded flesh of those I love until they burn with anger, betrayal, and perhaps hate.

And in my letters I'd apologize.

For poking at their traumas,
Their insecurities,
Day after day until they learned to hate me.

Maybe they'd forgive me in death.

Maybe they wouldn't. I'd rather they didn't. Then they'd hurt less.

There are many things I have yet to do in life.

Doesn't mean I'm glad to be living it.