Poetry Anthology

Death

I spend most nights teary eyed.
Unable to breathe with my chest contracting.
Alone.
I spend my early mornings in a constant anxiety and build-up of racing thoughts.
Numb, despondent and in agony.
Feelings I know all too well at midnight.
During the day it's depression's shift.
It roots itself within every fiber of me.
An is lulled by deception and pretence.
The need to blend in.
My very tormenter is my source of comfort.
He whispers terrifying truths.
You can't depend on anyone.
Except me.
After all I'm the only who's ever stuck around.
You're alone and I'm the realest thing you've ever encountered.
You're ugly.
Hideous.
You're weak.
You're sick.
Unlovable.
Far beyond hope and repair and you'd be a fool to believe anything other than that.
You're completely worthless.
The epitome of a mistake and a disaster waiting to unfold.
Who could want that?
You don't even want.
You don't even want you.
It eats me ,oh, how eats me.
It leaves nothing left of me.
So I sit wondering what I truly have to give but emptiness and sorrow.
An I pray that no one else can see it.
I dream about the days I could sink a razor deep within my thighs and wrist again.
But reason against it.
I need to look strong.
Instead I cut myself with my thoughts and welcome this punishment I so obviously deserve.
I let the wounds within me bleed openly.
I choke on my own blood.
While the few that notice comment on my panic attacks.
Yet if only they knew.
I drown in pools of my poison, my blood, myself.
But nobody sees.
The hollowness of my words.
The dullness of my eyes.
The guise of my smiles.
My deadened laughter.
Or perhaps not only do I have them fooled but myself too.
That I'm happy.
But how could I be? I've never known what happy was, not for long at least.
I've never known what real was, not for long at least.
I've never known what love was, not for long at least.
So I romanticise about death.
Mine in particular.
I desire it more than I have anything in this life.
I dream about my disappearance and how the world and its inhabitants would be better without me.
I welcome the darkness because for some reason it makes feel like I see things clearer.
I ignore the empty words of the people around me.
Their lies.
I shut out anything that tells me different because my history tells me not to rely on anyone.
Not after they abandoned me, grew tired of me and gave up on me.
Not after the hurt.
I know the truth.
Nothing is going to change.
I'm drowning...why am I gasping for air?
I'm dying - inside - the heartbreaking thing is that my body refuses to die with everything inside me.
I think this is the worst kind of death.
The slow, daily, excruciating kind of death.
The one that sucks you dry and leaves you with nothing.
The kind that progresses with no real cure.
Yes.
This is this has to be the worst form of death there is.

-M