I've made up my mind. If I've got this life, I'm going to stop half-assing it.
you wrap your phantom hands
around my heart,
ghosting across my skin
like the remains of you
trying to push yourself back into me
but i won't let you
this fragile mortality i have
is more than anything you could give me
- a brief respite,
temporary shelter from the world
and i have suffered too long
to let you take this youth away from me
but you still pressure me,
whisper lies, comforting lies into my ear,
murmured comforts that twist themselves
into something horrible.
because even if i don't really want this life,
it's the only one i've been given,
and god knows that
i've been through enough of it already
and that's another thing
i don't really want to find out
if it's really there.
not now, anyways.
and yet you continue to coerce me,
hiss your voice through stabs of pain,
when i can feel nothing.
you cackle as i tear my flesh
you feed on my fear
you feed on my depression
for you are called death.