Losing light...

Losing light...

Sunburst licks my toes dry. Twitching fingers ruin the effort to leave my last message – in blood.

Why can’t I think of anything else but a name to write?

A bubbling fit of mirth bursts into giggles as I realize that only a trained eye could decrypt this… scribble. It is a piddly drawing rather than a frenzied attempt to lay the blame of my fate on someone.

I’ve drawn a heart at the end.

How irrational.

How just like me. Inappropriate. Lonely. Dying alone, alone… Dying.

Had I always been alone?

Friends, lovers, tools, I’ve had my phases. Hugs, kisses, affectionate curses with gestures to reinforce them; when was the last time I received or given any?

Maybe the absence of panoramic images flashing means something. That I have never had any. Ever.

It is better this way, isn't it? To fade away without a whisper, without encumbering worry on any other; but repair my sins, just a little even, by fucking off to Hell.

Push me, pull me, cut me off this rope that I struggle on, without even knowing why, why I so desperately claw despite burning myself as I slide ever down.

Will somebody brazen enough please stamp the life out of me? Dying thoughts kill me doubly.

Perhaps ten years later they will find my body, ten years later they will contemplate what had happened, ten years later, everyone will have forgotten. Forgotten this. . . whatever, I have come to be, whatever I had been. A role model for the aspiring loners.

Cry for me, stranger
Cry for the man who fended off the world with feeble excuses panoply
Cry for the idiocy, when all he needed was to reach out
Cry out, scream, make a scene
Cry for the man who shovels his own six feet of dirt.

Because I cannot cry for myself. So laughable, my last moments came to be, that where I should be bleeding out my sorrow through my eyes, a hush of cackling descends.

This body is a casket for my sundered soul. That casket has been splayed open. Entrails pieced apart, scattered like the rain. Marrow leaking from bones that have become toothpicks. Blood is merely a color, and a violent painter has had his fun here. The mind, an intangible cube, is similarly decaying; thoughts muddle and memories sift into the air.

Die, already. Cruelty grips tightly, grips my mind awake and it hurts so much. The hurt of not being able to cry when you wish to -

So, so lonely. I am so lonely. Somebody save me, someone give me a hand, tell me I leave something behind apart from a hideous mess of a corpse. Tell me that I lived, breathed, smiled proper at least once in my life. Tell me that I existed.

But maybe it is me who is holding on. End of the rope, my friend, quit squabbling...

Time to let go. Time to stop straining my ears for voices that would never come.

Unless I let go. . .

. . .