“If “Happy Ever After” did exist,
I would still be holding you like this
All those fairy tales are full of shit
One more fucking love song, I’ll be sick.
Now I’m at a payphone…”
I tried to eat my gun. Stuck it in my mouth and tried to figure out the angle because you don’t want to mess this up. Pull the trigger, end the madness and fade to black is the only way I want this to end.
Can’t risk messing this up, failure isn’t something I can live with.
That is kind of funny in an odd sort of way. Can’t live with things the way they are now, why would I worry about that future. Someone told me it makes no sense to give up when you are healthy. They said if everything works than there is always a chance, an opportunity to fix the things that are broken.
They said that suicide is selfish and painful to all who are left behind. I wanted to tell them it was more selfish to ask me to stick around. I rip open my chest so they could see the gaping hole where my heart was torn out because maybe they would see the cancer inside and figure out how to destroy it.
But I didn’t because they wouldn’t really understand, couldn’t really understand what black and empty feels like or how a broken brain doesn’t work the way it should. How it is so fucked up inside I can’t see clearly and don’t remember a time when I could.
Death holds no fear for me. That Grim Reaper doesn’t frighten me nor does the thought of what might happen to my immortal soul because I know I don’t have one. It is a myth, a childish dream that people tell themselves and others so they feel better about what happens when they go to take their eternal dirt nap.
But I know better. There ain’t shit after life and since life is shit I got no reason to force feed it to myself. Got no reason to let these people rape me. Yeah, I know some people say I don’t get it, that my anus is intact and that if something hard, barbed and sharp was jammed up there I might feel differently, but they don’t get it either.
You can’t take drugs to fix what broke inside of me. You can’t heal what doesn’t exist. Broken beyond belief is what they would say, if they were truly honest.
So what is selfish is asking me to hang around when I got nothing, am nothing, will be nothing. Selfish is what you call those who try to scare me with talk about some horned supernatural creature.
Death won’t fix what is broken but it won’t hurt no more either so death is where I got to go.
Fear of dying isn’t what has stopped my hand, just fear of fucking it up and surviving what I do to myself. That is what scares me, being trapped longer inside this broken vessel.
I’d say it was fun, but it wasn’t. Won’t say goodbye either because I don’t like those either. Just taking time to slip out the back and then slip away,