Damaged Mind, Broken Spirit

Not good enough for my friends

"That funny feeling"

Sometimes,

it’s lighting a cigarette

with shaking hands

and sucking in the poison like it’s air—

because maybe if you smoke enough,

your lungs will rot

and you won’t have to do anything

but wait.

It’s stepping off the curb

without looking.

Cars blur past and maybe

one will take you out—

but you don’t flinch,

because dying that way

feels easier than doing this

again tomorrow.

Sometimes it’s fucking someone

you don’t know,

hoping their body carries

something sharp,

something irreversible.

You say yes when you want to scream

because maybe disease

is more merciful than time.

It’s not eating,

not sleeping,

staying up so long

your brain starts to rot,

because maybe your heart

will forget how to beat.

Maybe your body will cave in

without you needing

to lift a finger.

It’s leaving the tap on,

touching doorknobs,

never washing your hands—

let the germs in.

Let them feast.

Let the fever drown you

in something that isn’t

your own mind.

It’s ignoring the people

who still say they love you.

Snapping at them.

Pushing them out

until all you have left

is the silence you think you deserve.

It’s not setting your alarm

because who the fuck cares

if you lose your job—

what’s the point of clocks

when time only reminds you

you’re still here?

It’s chugging drinks

until your liver can’t keep up.

Until you forget your name.

Until the mirror

stops recognizing you.

It’s saying yes

to anything that might hurt.

It’s playing chicken

with your own heartbeat—

daring it to stop.

Being suicidal

isn’t always a note on a nightstand.

It’s not always a blade

or a bridge.

Sometimes,

it’s just letting everything rot.

Letting yourself fall apart

slowly—

quietly—

hoping the world

doesn’t notice

until you’re already gone.

Not trying to die.

Just not trying