suicide doesn’t fit my style

I’m confused as to what you make of me, you the reader, you who watch my words scroll past your screen. People have been writing about me lately, people have been accusing me of fire and I sit here in sunlight with the scent of faux coconut drifting off my sunscreened skin and I think, “You’re all crazy. I love you and you’re crazy.” My words accumulate, it’s true, they build upon what comes before until the most recent spill might look like something, might seem to have meaning, but to me they’re just letters. I don’t understand.

He coughs and I die a little inside. There’s tension across his chest and suddenly he can’t breathe. I know what this means.

I wore the soles of me feet through with walking today. Skin thinning to nothing in particular, blood flecked with little white shreds. My feet left me to catch the bus. Too much wearing thin lately, too many days between here and now and then today, too many hours that I don’t get to have. I’m beginning to remember the barest hints of being angry. If I horde it, I can use it. Build up unleash and no apologies, he’ll leave. It’s not so much about the beginning of remembering to choose, it’s preparing for the war inside me. I’m going to lose this one, I’m going to lose it and there’s no gracefully. My eyes will want to leak from my head, there will be vessels broken, fractaled heartbeats sending me back to being broken, back to opposition and being too afraid silent to leave the house. It’s not even that I’m always walking in thinking silence, there are people who love me, who want to see me cry some day. My past reminds me that five years is reaching for me, that I want to leave this blasted place and remember how to live with culture. Walking myself to ruin is just what I’m used to. Red souled footsteps are simply the mean.

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