Everyone who reads this can fuck themselves

And what if I'm not that anymore.
If I'm not good enough or don't have enough blood.
What if I don't feel like writing because I don't want to tell the truth anymore.
What if I'm repetitious. What if my word choice is poor, my syntax shit. What if I don't want to care.
What if I just want to fuck you until my brains are dead rose petals.
What if I don't want to die.
What if I don't want to hurt anymore.
What if I'm terrified of leaving you.
What if I'm terrified.
If metaphor is reduced. Simile like Hiroshima or birthday candles or worse.
So that when we are ash it's a shitty child's lie, the cinder is turned away from, their faces bored, relieved at the intermission from grief. They will close their eyes and breathe in. This is called childhood.
This is childhood.
What if I don't feel like not writing because it feels good to lie for a while.
Would you listen?
How many times do you think I can ask to be great
Before I am not.
How many times do you think
Before you cannot/
Do you think
we'll make it?
Or
Should I care should I have come back to this.
Should I dwell.
Is it okay if you don't have any of the answers.
It's okay if we're just quiet for a while.
It's okay to fill the room with breath
So that I can rest
So that I don't have to be that
that if I die tonight
if I
tonight
if
I won't be what anyone had hoped
I won't be their success story before I burn this whole fucking place to the ground
Where the dirt
the clay
and the black
are a pretty mess
This is how I prepare for winter.
Can we snuggle and be cute and make them sick of us
I feel so much compelled to disappoint.
So when the snow melts, there will be only us in this place, and no one will know where we are hiding.
Will you stay?
Because everyone who reads this can fuck themselves
and learn to cope with loss
and eventually we'll end this
and eventually we'll end.