I don't think this is hurting or pain my breaths are quiet hushed like a suffering tree my legs are not trumbeling my lips are not quivering even more I'm not writing a suicide letter. That's good right. Because I used to home drunken men in me sailing into a mad sea called limits dared to drown without being saved I wonder how they did it ? Still they died I killed them one by one reinventing my technics eatch time oh I used to write them heart felt letters with a nice little heart after signing my name. Yet I don't wanna be called a killer for only killing a part of myself they were pity and weak limbs I stood upon drew blood from I wanna deserve the title wanna be efficient take my own breath away cease the heart beat scream in the decent fall into warming heat without burning my wings for once. I wanna die without suffering the agony of surviving death or grief for two years my unsuccessful attempt. Just be a practical killer for the sake of me.
13 août 2022
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Field Notes ▪︎ Prose (2)
PoetryKillin' a few with a smile is what's called romanticism of war 🫀 Short texts about my mental affliction
