To Die

She walks with her head held high and does her work on time. Like a queen, she reigns over everything that she finds and touches hearts so softly that they melt under her gaze.

I wish I was her.

I hate how I know the truth behind every word that you utter as you speak to me, your eyes bright and confident. Doubt comes to you when it should and leaves as it should. Your hands tremble when you're nervous and your mind wanders where any ordinary mind will inevitably and eventually, and I wish I had your smile and your hands, crafting your future so carefully with the tools that life gave you.

You laugh so lightly that I feel myself, for a moment, lose some of the weight off of these young shoulders that carry whole worlds without a word of complaint. I wish I could stand when I am expected to with strength where it should be in this young body of mine. I have barely lived, yet I am ready to die, and every turn taunts me as I walk along unable to stop for time never stops for anyone and everyone, anything and everything.

I see myself gone and I see myself erased. Every picture and every sight is drained of colour so quickly that it fills me with dread for every moment and every picture ahead of me. The paint fades so fast that I am unable to recall a time when I could see the life in this work of mine. The pencil is heavy in my hand and pulls me down, urging me to lie down and close my eyes and place the pencil down and give up; a force that I myself had created, wrenching at me from far below where people go when purpose is no longer buried and able to resurface, but is now gone forever like the paint and the colour in the world.

I feel myself being drained; deteriorating, fading. I have lost all sense and all thought. My mind is running on worn and rusted wheels, crushed and weakened parts and the fuel has run out. There is no energy left in me. I beg to leave and I beg to be erased.

It is painful being half-alive.

It is painful to see that everything in front of me and every dream inside of me is a façade and every something is made of absolutely nothing. I wish I had your glasses and your mind, so colourful and pure and unbothered by the quiet that screams of truth and screams of nothingness that threatens to consume you until you yourself become what you feared you would: nothing.

Like a murderer, an animal, a creature you created with your own mind and hands and gave life to with the life you were born with until you are left a thin, fragile shell on the brink of ripping apart whilst the thing you created crushes you, destroys you, mauls you and kills you slowly from the inside like a viscious poison running through your veins until finally, it has consumed you so wholly that there is not a fragment of possibility for escape.

You have killed yourself; committed suicide from the inside. They do not notice or simply choose to ignore as you exist physically, appearing as one should and normally would, eyes widening and lips stretching as they should and legs moving and hands working as they normally would. Like a robot you continue on, silencing yourself and silencing your mind and silencing your heart, for in you and your mind and your heart does the monster live. And through these instruments does the monster perform its mission of destroying you until there is nothing left of you save for flesh and bone.

And one day those, too, will be gone.

But this time, the world will finally notice that you are, in fact, dead.

***

Lol. :)