That Selfish Sleep
I would like to be dead, but I don't want to kill myself.
I would like to be dead, so I lay down in bed. I curl up neath the covers And smother my head.
I press into the pillow until shallow are my breaths, and I close my eyes tightly, wishing the darkness to be Death.
I want to kill my self, but I don't want to be dead. I'd like to swing softly and coldly and hang back my head.
And sit stiff in silence, indifferent, profound. Resting, while breathing six feet underground.
I want to die to be awakened by that icy cold pain if only to prove that I'm real and not actually insane.
I want to feel like it's okay to feel. I want to break down, I just want to heal.
I have so many problems that don't need to be solved. Don't need to be answered. Don't need to be heard. I can't be honest with myself because I can't find the words.
I don't want to go out with a bang, or end life with a fall. I would like only simply, to not Be at all.
If I died today, and heaven really did not exist, I would hope that I could rest without being missed.
If I disappeared today and could not be found, I would hope that nobody should miss me being around.
I would like to say that I won't see another day, and excuse myself from this party for my welcome is now overstayed.
If I could silently go and not harm those who love me, I would sail far away and be lost to the sea.
I am not tired of fighting, I was beaten long ago. I lost my fight as a child, now I am only a ghost.
I fake every laugh and force every smile, I have been painting this harlequin mask for a while.
I rehearse each interaction and go over my lines, my timing is now perfect. My performance, sublime.
I long dearly now for my exit from the stage, For my pen to stop writing On that unfinished last page.
Posted Oct 5, 2022, 12:49 PM UTC · edited