Oh yes, I’m violent.
I’ve killed myself so many times.
Not the death of a pulse,
But choosing to let a past-self die.
I’m quite literally invincible.
I don’t need anything.
I awake and face the day,
Better than I was.
Christened by the pain.
A sculpture of self-sadism,
Every hit of the chisel,
A standard impossible to measure up against.
I’m already perfect.
The child in me still hurts.
Feels as though he is never enough.
I’ve retired the care in my age,
But who I’ve been is still suffering,
Looking for who would notice me.
In fear of dying alone,
Rotting and smelling in a thick black bodybag,
Full of someone overlooked.
Full of potential.
A capacity for beauty and goodness.
A pity.

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