A calm rushes over me as I picture my corpse ill-fated with the faults I can’t escape. A sigh of relief used to signify the blight that infects the last few fragments of my skull. Sometimes I swear I think that I’ll be fine. I’ve made up my mind. Death is my birthright.
I am a noose waiting to be tied. Still I try to elude the truth and embrace my disguise because this way of life takes it’s toll on mine and I don’t want to be alive. Bury me breathing so I can watch myself decay. We are stillborns by definition but our pulse-infected
wrists will disagree. We burden ourselves with intent and ambition when we’ve accepted that all hope is lost. So dance past my lips and disperse, leaving no trace of human condition. Our bodies blind the world with a sense of selflessness that only a trained eye can see.
You blame me for your blindness. Open your eyes.