Veins Full of Disappearing Ink

I am negativity.

I swallow cold ideas and spit out laughter.

My psychic pain does not show through my false exuberance. 

I do not want to live this lie any longer, but 

I do not want others to see my self-condemning thoughts. 

Images 

of this face gasping for air or

this skin staining the rug crimson or

these muscles convulsing, shutting down

 all leave me with reassurance.

My last thought before bed is an image of my disappearance.

The thought helps me sleep; it is calming.

But I had been sleeping on hospital beds just 2 weeks ago, for this very reason.

I'm back now,

worse than before.

But this time, resting my head with my first thought being my last, I sleep with ease.

Don't Go Down

I wonder how fucked up a place can be when those living in it need to medicate themselves.

Medicate themselves to feel nothing.

To feel nothing would be better than to feel a sense of death coming upon yourself?

To feel a sense of death would be more than this.

Dying is an adventure.

To keep myself alive, I must feel nothing;

A strange phenomena that no one person could understand because

self medicating means feeling nothing.

I want to go on the adventure.

Dying.