Live

I don’t want to d-e.

I don’t think I ever did.

There was a time where I thought it was my only option to get the pain to stop.

I wasn’t wrong but I can handle the pain now, I’ve learnt to live with it.

I’m slowly learning to live in spite of it.

I’m ready for death though. Always have been.

I wasn’t meant to be born, almost died being born.

I had a few close calls in my teens.

I’m not scared of it. I should be right?

I’m prepared though, emotionally. Not many people would miss me, those who do would be able to get on with their lives fairly easily.

I don’t have people anymore, not like I used to.

I’d feel bad for a friend who lives far, who wouldn’t know but she hasn’t spoken to me in months.

I’d feel guilty for my ex. Is that strange?

I still care about her deeply, I know she has my number for emergencies. She know’s where I live, just in case she needs shelter. I have her back, even when we’re not talking.

She lives a little far too, she wouldn’t know. Wouldn’t find out because no one would think to let her know.

I don’t know if she’d care but I dread thinking that I wouldn’t be able to pick up the phone.

I don’t welcome death. I’m not trying to force myself to retire early but I’m ready for it. I’m not scared.

I wish I was, maybe that would make the living part easier.

I’m scared part of me is already gone. That I’m just a grieving man. Yet I’m not grieving a loved one, I’m grieving myself or at least a version of myself.

I feel like I’m standing over the ruins of myself, sobbing as I try to piece together what happened. My body is the map to it, a collection of my struggles. Of my pain.

But I want to try and live.