The Failure in my head.
“It’d be much better if you were dead.”— that’s what she told me.
And every day, night, and hour; the failure in my own head seeks to reap me of her “harvest”.
When I am walking across a rusty bridge on a cool, spring morning;
where the air is just right, the sky dipped baby-blue, dribbled with white high clouds that dance across a peaceful sky: the smell of the blossoms riding along the wind, with petals taking flight, some falling to sparkling water below.
And there she goes:
“You’d be better off, careening off this bridge.”
And, sickeningly, I believe her.
My suffering enduring for what seems to be forever, with a future that is nothing but a bleak point in existence, even if I will have one,
I believe that when she tells me that I am nothing but a momentary speck in time and space,
that I’m nothing but an empty socket, for some to plug up and shut down,
And that if I die, I will be just as everyone else, remembered: and then forgotten.
the failure in my head, speaks so fucking clearly.
”You’d be better off.“ with a soft chuckle at the end of her words, “If you just didn’t exist at all.”