I dream of getting to die slowly; of feeling my life slip away from me as I cascade into endless nothingness.
I dream of getting to savor every ragged breath that escapes my lungs until I've been bled dry.
It sounds so peaceful.
So quiet.
That is the reason I carve my poetry into my skin; for the brief moment of relief and silence that can only ever truly be brought on by death.
And if you read between the lines, you will see what I could have been.
Whether on paper or flesh, they all say the same:
"You could have been anything and everything. You could have been something worth the space that you so rudely inhabit. You could have changed the world.
And yet you chose to become nothing.
You say you were not meant for this world because if you admit that you have a place here then you must also admit that you have failed;
That you have given up before you've even had a chance to truly live.
So go ahead.
Continue living for others. Continue staying alive out of obligation. Barely love the world, and hardly, if at all, yourself.
In the end,
The only one who will miss out
Is you."
(2023)
