The clock reads 2: 11 am
I've been up all night
trying not to sleep
once I sleep
...
The gun is slick with blood
22. black, easy
one bullet, one life, one shot
heaving in my cold hand
...
I'm sitting in a chair
my hands can only move inches
cuffed together behind my chair
my eyes down cast
...
A knife sticks through my stomach
face full of relief
someone told me no finally
blood gurgles in my throat
...
I wonder how many pills it would take
to commit suicide,
popping one after another
would you have to wait
...
It isn't in slow motion like they till you it will be
everything is unclear, blurry
you can't see the bullets
you can hear them one after another ricocheting into
...
Does a clock ever want to stop ticking
does it get tired doing the same thing every day
over and over
repeating a pattern that never stops
...
My head is pounding
anger grows
a pit in my stomach growing
filled with every emotion mixed together, love, anger, passion, rage, sadness
...
2: 11am
The clock reads 2: 11 am
I've been up all night
trying not to sleep
once I sleep
I have to wake up and face reality
all my sins starring me in the face
things forgotten
and I can smell disappointment in the air
heavy and thick
my shoulders slump
I can feel it pressing down on me
making me smaller
than I ever thought I could be
stares and unknown thoughts
only guessing the insults and comments they'd say
pressing down filling my mind with doubts
telling myself to slouch
to become smaller
to be weak and empty
to listen and never speak
screaming into silence
trying to find courage
and coming up weak
telling myself that's all I'll ever be