welcome home

i cannot deal with the numerous repetitions
of me breaking down and
always having somebody
pull me out before i could
taste the full plunge into depression.

selfish
gross
ungrateful
i could find a thousand adjectives to
suit me.

it is a sick mind i own
one of black paint and
gruesome stories of
a dying soul named after me.

crashing through a world of coincidences and
timing
i found a world where everything i do
affects more than just pain
and ruin;
a direction i cannot stray from.

i miss touching the bottom -
at least i was certain of my situation, then
a comfortable relief of
tasting the dirt of the dark on every
internal scab i owned.

the repeated nights of
wishing for the moment when i was
sprawled across the floor
tasting the end
kills
but i prefer keeping the routine to myself
because pity is not the best gift
they give
and i hate those eyes that watch me
knowing me more
than i know myself.

there are many ways i can
escape all this
but none are possible without me
knowing where i stand;
without the certainty of place
how will i know where to move from?

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