I am only comfortable with the silence that comes after accepting the fact that you’re dying.
Rotted veins push the spread further as I feel heavy metals building up behind my eyes. Reduce infection by amputating the parts I don’t need. Phantom pain is just a ghost that I sometimes desire to linger above me as I sleep.
My existence is shadows and dust, and when the dawn escapes, you will have neither. They have already dug the hole. They know. My only lamentations are in the form of time I never had to spend with those who gather close in dimly lit rooms and link hands to form a protective ring around me.
But I’m dying on the inside. Other people’s tears no longer feel warm as I am immune to all but what is eating me. I accept the end for what it is, another cycle, coming to it’s closing. Maybe I’ll see them in a different space and time. Maybe I will awake in arms that have been waiting.
In any event, I have made my peace with what I am and what lives to kill me. I am truly alone in these steps. They all become a blur of tired eyes and mourning, and I have lost count of the goodbyes falling from shaking lips.
(Source: mister-selfdestruct)
