Dangerous to Health
Yes, I’m afraid there is something deeply wrong with me. It’s not the same thing that’s wrong with everybody else: it’s neuroticism, and I’m the only person who really has it.
I can lie in wait for only so long before my skin caves in and everyone learns that there was never anything inside me but mould. I am a shell perilously carrying amanatin spores, hoping against hope that I don’t let the people I love become exposed, all the while leaking my poison each time I open my mouth to speak. If you press your body against mine I’m sure you can tell that I’m hollow.
If you press your body against mine then it is already too late for you.
I am a smokestack contaminating your atmosphere, and no one can ever think of a good enough reason to let me go. I’m part of the skyline, I’m an integral part of the functioning of your city and soon you’ll believe I was always there. The smoke will fill your air and deaden your view of the stars until the only shine you see is contrived by my factories.
I am asbestos. My razor fibres lodge themselves within your lungs. If it were up to me, all your haunts would have me installed in the walls. From the walls I can hear you breathe, shallow. If you had just asked someone, this could all have been avoided.
I am avarice. I will never stop and I always get what I want and a moment later I want the next thing and my desires are eating themselves forever. The ouroboros is never sated.
I am. I am and I think I am and what I think is rot and what I want is to not think and to not think is to not be. But I am.
I am.
I am.
I am.
Kill Me
Would you, if I could entreat you to do so, take my life? Would you give me everything and take away my suffering? If I was appropriately enfeebled, would you help me let go? Could you hold my hand and let me end on a high? If I was too weak, would you help me get there? Would you trust me to make that decision for myself? Do you love me? Do you think about me dying? Does it scare you? Would it scare you if you knew that was what I wanted? Does it scare you to be without me? Would you follow me? Do you remember when we first started to talk and I opened up in a way I came to think of as desperate? Did it scare you how quickly I was willing to say it? Would you feel worse to know that the words were stuck in my throat for months? Does it surprise you that I have been this way before and since? Does it surprise you to know that you aren’t special? Does it hurt when I tell you that? Do you know that I never cared if you were special, only that you were interesting? Do you think I’m lying or otherwise obfuscating? Do my veins look full to you? Do you want to change that? When you told me that you loved me, did the words stick in your throat? Am I an acquired taste, a Stockholm Syndrome-esque presence where my vileness becomes my draw? If I asked you to, would you hate me? Would you hate me if I told you everything? Does your love have a half-life? Where are you? Do I need you? Could you put your hand over my mouth? Can your hand be full of pills? If I explained my reasons, would you understand why? Do you love me? Are your nails sharp enough to cut my achilles tendon? Can you write a letter to my loved ones? Can you feel me begging? Can you feel me slipping? Can you help lower me down? Can you invite my friends to my funeral? Would you prefer I look at you or away while you do this? Do you remember when it felt like it was just us surrounded by shadows? Do you truly believe that I want this? Can you look me in the eyes? Do you know that I love you? Why are you crying? What’s wrong with you? Can you please just use the pillow? Where are you going? Why can’t you understand? Why can’t you feel what I feel? Why can’t you just do one simple thing for me? What did I ever see in you? Are you coming back tomorrow? Hello? Can you come back in here and kill me? Please?