i fear for the day i will die.
the way my hands tremble as i write of the forbidden, the way my chest tightens
the day i will sleep and wake up no more
the lodging of a bullet – cylindrical, lethal and deadly – into my brain, and the crumbling – and killing pain that follows
the way the causal agent of my final decease – a long, silver knife that glistens – will take its position in my chest, right on top of my heart until it digs deeper, and deeper, and deeper until it finds an artery and inevitably, it will burst it open and i will finally cease to be
the planned attack – the day my enemies and all the people i have offended will decide that they have had enough and can no longer continue to coexist with me on this face of God’s green earth, so they end my life. i wonder if it would be lethal poison, a shot to the head, an intentional car accident, a club to the forehead. i can’t help but wonder.
i wonder if it’ll be one of these days, when i’m looking into the mirror and only finding the fragments of a broken, lost girl and slashing my wrist viciously, repeatedly, watching the blood stain the walls, my thighs, the floor, my shoulders vibrating and my head pounding, mourning all of the things that never even existed. i wonder if it’s then i’ll see it – a vein, fork-like and delicate and wonder if it should just cut it and end my life. because i know in that moment, i’ll be too broken to say no to my demons, i know i’ll do it.
and when i die, one day all i’ll be is the faint memory of a lost, unsuspected girl.
i fear the day that nobody will care. you see, people always move on. we claim to be so weak and frail and everything strength isn’t, but we get over loss. we forget. we eventually do, and we hide it under the guise of “it gets better with time”.
you’d be surprised at who gives a damn about you and who doesn’t.
but that day, i’d know.
it’d hurt, because the same people always said they couldn’t do without me. the love they showed – fake anyway, i couldn’t fathom how they’d just be okay.
when i die, they’ll mourn me for – two weeks? then they’ll move on. simple. like i never existed. like i was never here.