Commit My Being To Your Memory

I know that you're gone and I can't help but wonder who's next.

People usually die in small groups of three, depending on how you see it, we're halfway there.

I am terrified of the past, present and future so I'm consistently foreshadowed in dread.

It's one way to spend your teenage years in a haze, but another to want to take the veins from your arms and use them as string on birthday gifts.

Stepping away from me must feel good.

Leaving a snivelling, cowardice waste of oxygen crying in the corner of some dark basement after you throw away the key must be a deeply empowering feeling.

I want to be crucified for an irony that is beyond universal.

I want to be a negative display that makes children run away and hide.

Often, I have thought about dissapearing into the night with nothing more than the clothes on my back, taking a bus into a distant neighborhood that feels so alien, but so familiar too.

I want to wake up to the smell of herbal tea, on a sofa in the middle of a big city just to forget being crushed by a cult-of-a-town.

Nobody really depends on me anymore, the only thing they'd miss would be the personality I crafted for them.

I want to be a symbol of negative influence, diversity and holyness all in one shot, but I know nobody will allow it.

I ache for a life that never happened, but I also ache in this corrupt, capitalistic society that strives for me to crush anyone beneath me and obey those above me.

I know for a fact this isn't my habitat.

Thrown into the centre of the ocean with weights welded to your feet that say 'just swim' on them is how hopeless and pointless my existence feels.

Maybe a good scenery change, aided by some substanes could give me the factory reset I yearn for.

My heart is in my head, and my psyche hides in my cavernous chest.

Morals no longer exist.

I will crush anything to make me feel less of everything.

I need it to stop, but I also need it to pass.

I want it to rain forever, that way I can be certain that I could finally be washed of my eternal damnation and a sense of heavenly cleanliness takes its place.

Either that, or I look like a delusional flesh bag standing in the rain with outstretches arms screaming at the sky.

I don't want to be found on a bathroom floor, I want to be found in the centre of a road, or in a church laying beneath a stained glass window covered in everyone I held dear's blood and my own, before delivering myself the salvation of death and bleeding into a rich, red carpet to be found cold and breathless next time the masses meet in the "sacred" space.

Find me where you could find religion.