#imightkillmyself

I cannot let go of the matter that holds onto me. I cannot let go of the faraway world. I cannot let go of the cricket’s love.

I see my twisted reflection in the substance, black and augmented in its tendrils. It’s mutters parallel my cricket. The tar guides me forward, so close that my nose touches its depth. In the tar, I will not exist.

In the tar, my throat will be clogged with black.

In the tar, my last breath will be alongside the desperate chime of the cricket’s call, wishing me back to my place in reality. In the tar, the sounds will disappear.