I'm an undead poet darling,
And I know my life may not seem that tragic,
But honestly, I'm just waiting for the click,
The one that decides if I end myself, or someone else.
My skin feels decayed,
Like the burnt edges of aging paper.
My body is made of plastic,
So easily bent to another's will.
Like thin glass, my body is covered with abrasions.
My insides feel rotted,
And my brain is a mess of twisting thoughts.
I'm the living dead,
I walk this earth as an empty husk,
I'm void of any attachments.
Sometimes, not even I'm sure if my soul still resides here.
Maybe I'm the vacation home for suicide and other grotesque emotions.
I'm so sick and twisted for someone who hasn't been through that much.
Perhaps that's why I yearn for broken limbs,
Maybe then I'll be shattered enough to be pitied.
Maybe then I can end this life and put myself to rest.
Maybe then no one will cry at my memories that can't be continued.
