I laid there in the bed.

So sick.

Beaten down by something.

Thinking to myself:

This is terrible.  This feels terrible, this is like hell, this is, this is, this is, this is what I want.

It’s what I felt I deserved.

You want to wait around for your life?  Here.  Here’s a REASON now to wait.

Doens’t that suck?

Now you have to sit there, the sickness said to me.

Now you HAVE to watch the world go by.

Having an excuse doesn’t make it better does it?

No.  It’s worse now.

Be careful what you wish for,

But more careful of what you’re not bothering to wish for.

Like health.

That’s what usually gets taken from you.

The things you never thought to wish for.

So I sat there.  On the edge of my bed.  Becaomeing more and more of a joke every day.

I’m hilarious now, I bet.

To others.

Not to me.

This Joke is not funny anymore.

I’ve fallen out of love with being myself.

So once I’m feeling better, I’m going to walk down to the store and buy some alcohol.

The kind that burns

Like literally burns.

I’ll dump it all over myself.

Light a match.

And run.

I’ll keep running until I stop or the fire does.

I’ll scorch the earth of me.

The crusty soot will flick away and underneath will be…

will be…

will be…