#ock02

i am the last atheist in the foxhole. a lonely soldier collecting stray bullet shells for their scrapbook of fallen heroes. find me cowering in the trenches, tracing the shapes of my friends’ corpses with trembling fingers. bullets ricochet and bayonets pierce the skin. genuflect to the new king of the broken. kiss the ring and pray for forgiveness. you think the end of the war means peace has finally shown its weary head. but the reign of terror has only just begun.

apologies have lost all meaning. the words barely reach my ears before you make the same mistake for the 100th time. don’t tell me you’re sorry for the stab wounds when i know you’re just going to wipe the knife clean and keep it hidden in your pocket once more. you’re never going to learn from your mistakes, and i’m scared i’m never going to learn to stop forgiving them. maybe it’s time for a little self defence. 

if people call me selfish for finally letting the anchor sink down without me, then i’ll just show them the irreparable damage done to my lungs.

i won’t stop performing, at least not yet. it’s the only thing i do that can convince the people in my life that i’m worth having around. but one day i’ll run out of magic, and the audience will disperse. i’ll be left standing alone in the tent, wondering why no one ever thought to ask if i wanted to see the glitter and stars too.

i never intend to scare them. i get no satisfaction from watching them hesitantly check my active status and count back the hours to see if i’ve had enough time to catch the 44 bus to central and throw myself into the thames. but i can’t bear the thought of replying when i have no good news, no updates, no light at the end of the tunnel. lord knows they’re all going through enough on their own without me trying to drag them into my own private pit of despair. hours turn into days, then into weeks. i didn’t mean for this to happen, but i truly have nothing to say anymore. except “help me”.

i need a new body. everything’s been broken and warped and distorted beyond repair. my legs can’t carry me to the finish line anymore. all of my bones have been shattered to pieces by each reminder of what i’ve lost and who i used to be. memories are double-edged swords and i do nothing but willingly ram my chest into them every time. it’s hard to breathe when your lungs are pierced and bruised from self sabotage. god knows i’ve already drank my liver into oblivion, too far to recover. i should’ve known you can’t numb that which is already unfeeling. i can’t hear when my friends tell me they love me. when my father tells me he cares about me. when the world begs me to stay. i can’t see colours anymore, all the saturation has faded to lifeless shades of grey and beige. my mind is a car. totalled. wrecked. upside down in a ditch. but no flowers dare to grow at the site of the crash, even weeds reject my corpse. and who could ever blame them?