It’s 1.43 am and I’m sinking.
It’s 1.49 am and I’m barely there.
It’s 1.52 and I’m a goner.
It’s been all said and done. I am unworthy and undeserving; incapable of being loved. People around me relentlessly display that fact for my knowledge. I don’t deserve it because I’m not enough. I’m never enough and I won’t ever be. It’s a vicious cycle and it threatens to pull me in on under.
Under the waves, I go. Rolling and submerging into a cascading layer of transcendence, that’s what they deem it to be but in reality, it’s a roaring unwavering doom circling around me. It’s gripping my shrouds and doesn’t let go. Sinking in euphoria of finally being relieved of pain, I go rolling.
Unloved and undulating. I go. I leave.
They say it’s a rough ride, spiraling down the tunnel of implicated disorder. I want to leave but I don’t want to go.
It’s 2.10 and I’m almost there.
Vivid imagery. I’d do anything for the pain to go away.
Sniff. Sniff. Oops, it split.
I’m almost there. Bump one more and I swear, I’ll be better.
They say I’m undeserving of the love yet I have so much to give that it spills out of me and cascades on the crimson carpet. It looks like my insides. Raw, pragmatic but pure. Please, I plead, it’s been years. I have given and given and given. I’ve loved, loved and lost even more.
There’s no more of it. I’m almost empty. Almost done.
It’s 2.26 and I can’t wait to get there.
‘No, you’re mistaken. You long for the pain because you give you see. That’s what you do and that’s what gets you back. Infinite amounts of despair and pain. You’re nothing.’
It’s 2.49 and I’m reaching.
Time to be alive and undead. I’m numb and I’ve nothing to lose.
Time of the poets and the dreamers and the extraordinaire.
Call on me. Call on me.
I’m waiting. Waiting to be free.
Call on me.
Save me from myself now.