I live for her

Chapter 6: Death Is Easy

I walk with tired limbs back home... The convo with Max temporarily opened my eyes. And I'm fine, I really am. It's just sometimes I wonder why I write... I mean honestly this poetry thing is dumbfounding to me. I know, I'm being vague - I know... I'm a poet. I play with words: words are my paintbrush, and paper is my canvas. So, surely, I should be able to express myself in a manner that doesn't leave you confused. (Even though poetry in itself is confusing - like why do things have to be hidden behind metaphors and similes? But I just paint... I do not question why I use a paintbrush or the blue paint... I just paint. Maybe you can figure out why poets are confusing - especially the ones that don't mean to be.). So bare with me, I'm trying. I feel the only reason I am able to write poetry, is because I'm over-sensitive, which is something I feel embarrassed of (and I know I can blame this hypersensitivity on these teenage hormones!). I mean, you know, we live in a society that promotes boys to keep their emotions inside and locked in. And here I am, a boy, expressing himself, externalizing his feelings. And to be honest, this insecurity of being a poet is made even worse by the fact that the piles of paper housing my words... have never changed the world. Yes, they've infused my cells with oxygen so that I can survive nights spent fighting Depression's tidal waves - and it's not just night time when I struggle, I also struggle when only half of the sun rules the skies. There's something beautiful about fighting off dark thoughts during the day time, how the sun is sustaining my life yet my brain's neurons are trying their very best to end it. Sorry, I have a twisted view on life (and I'm a psychopath) I can't help it, I think there's beauty in everything... Even if it's the thoughts that cage me in a box of low self-esteem. My poetry is useless - let's face it. My life is worthless - let's face it. There's nothing normal about being like this... And that's why I ponder if I can tell a living soul - I doubt... I can tell her. A part of me, the hopeless romantic part: the one that writes poems about her, just to keep them stashed in some file (Mhm... he's killing trees in the name of love poetry... I'm ashamed he's one of my personalities sometimes - but I guess I am who I am. Or maybe I'm Iago? Shush, back to the gist.). He says, that she's the kind who will love all my flaws, that she's the kind who's above superficial love. He says... he feels it, when she places her head on my chest, when she looks me in the eyes with sedated green eyes after a lip lock, when she laughs and ends her laughing bouts with a content smile burning my vision with undeniable signs of... Love?  No... umm... Let's call it "romantic feelings"... 'cause, you know, we're too young to know what love is. 

My stomach churns, because of the way I'm going: the train of thought I'm having... it's leading me to a dark tunnel. One that illuminates the only thing I've known and I've tried so fucking hard to run away from: loneliness. Truth is, no one knows what it's like to have your father tell you you're worthless right after you've just convinced your own mental voices that you're not. Truth is, no one knows what it's like to want to justify your father's hurtful speech with the fact that he's lost... or losing someone he loves. Truth is no one knows what it's like to keep submerging the fear that your mother... could die.  She could die before she sees you graduate from university and become a doctor - because it's the kind of job that will placate her fears for your future. She could die before... she sees you bring home some girl she's never heard of and listens to you blab about how different she is and how... she's "the one". (A friend said she didn't believe in "the one" but rather the two. I on the other hand think... there's no such thing and she... had too much teenage hormones in her veins as of that moment she said that.). I try my best to ignore the melancholic coldness of the tears oozing out of my tear ducts and trailing down the topography of my skull. She could... die. No one knows what it's like to have the burden of knowing your mother could die, before you even feel the burden of having to take care of her during her Autumn years. No one knows... No one fucking knows... No one fucking understands! (I wanted to break something so... so... badly - because sometimes, breaking yourself isn't enough.).

I really just want this to stop. I want the desire to wield a pen for comfort that is creeping up on me - to stop. I want feeling my dad's hurt - to stop. I want feeling my mother's hurting - to stop. I want feeling my loneliness - to stop. I want to stop fucking feeling - Lord knows I want it as badly as I do death. Please make me stop feeling... Please... Please... Please. I've had enough to last a lifetime, the poems tell me I have, my tears tell me I have, my suicidal thoughts tell me I have. I'd love... to stop feeling, is that too much to ask for?! What's the point of a life... spent in an unending mental strife... Struggling so much to survive... Dreading the fact that you're alive... I'm holding on - for her... But these thoughts say I should surrender... That she won't miss me and she won't kiss me... She won't understand me... And she won't be able to stand me... This me. I can't stand... This me.

Death is easy, at this point, I know Death, it's easy - for me to visit him. At this point, I'd like to write some suicide letters, you know? Some last words to Emily... Max... my mum and my dad. The pain doesn't cease, it... comes and goes... It comes with stronger foes. And each time... Suicide is very close. I want to give up - I am really tired... so fucking tired... exhausted: my soul is drained of life. Survival, hopes, dreams, aspirations - none of them pop into my mind. Maybe I'm going to walk home and overdose on my dad's sleeping pills tonight. Or... even better, see how deep my pocket knife can cut, hopefully... it does the job: I won't be able to look her in the eyes if my soul remains with my skin - newly-scarred. (Bingo! What rhymes with scarred? Charred. Death by fire, that's a grand act - would be quite apt for me to die like that.). I start to think of flames, fire, hell, inferno, burning, smoking, choking - they say there's a point where the fire burns all your nerve cells and you feel nothing. That's my destination: watching flames engulf, seeing my live give up - but finally feeling... nothing.

A/N: So... Leroy, wants to die again, are you getting fed up... Or do you understand him? Be honest, tell me what you think, I shall not judge thee 😊

And don't forget to drop a star if you like his inability to stay away from thinking that drops him on Suicide's doorstep 😄

Fellow passengers, I know it's scary right now since we're in a tunnel and it's dark inside - but I'm still glad you're staying calm and even decided to take this train ride 😘 ♥

Thank you for making it this far❤️.
Choo-Choo 🚉 (you know the drill... next chapter - hopefully we get out of this tunnel soon 😢)