There are fractions of days
when I swear
I could go to war with the world
in the first blink of a lazy eye.
Then comes the entirety
of the long remainder of those days
every breath
a dozen nails
hammered into lungs, ribs, intestines,
each inhale another haemorrhage.
Nights I’ve prayed
would split themselves open
and swallow me whole,
their darkness a softer death
than the hundred deaths inside my chest.
My need to die
feels sharper
than my hope of surviving life.
Yet life crawls back,
because my death
isn’t mine alone.
Because love is a lot like leeches
sycophant enough
to keep corpses breathing,
just to feel alive,
to convince itself it still lives
in the hollows of others.
These days
I can’t quite tell anymore
if I’m more helpless
in my hope of life
or in my hope of death.
Life doesn’t let me live.
Love doesn’t let me die.
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