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?