Pretend

I am off my medication and I am pissed. Some may even call it livid, but you know what? I don't give a fuck anymore. I really, really don't. I've held this in for awhile now. I never got mad at you, I never took my anger out on you. I never said it was your fault, not once. I never blamed you but the way you've been acting lately I'm really starting to. Stop pretending like you actually give a shit about me. You gave such a heartfelt emotional speech about keeping me alive and on the planet Because you'd feel oh so very awful in a world without me. You said that you couldn't bare a world without me. And the moment I disappear from your life you don't even bat an eye. You don't give a single fuck about me or how I feel you just pretend to so that you'd feel less guilty at my funeral. You did as little as you could just so you can say you tried. I believed you for a long while. I truly did. I really thought I meant something to you. But as soon as I gave you opportunity after opportunity to prove it you sat by and did nothing. Silence, not a single utterance towards my direction. I get a scornful glance out of you then you proceed to have a fully joyous conversation with someone else completely ignorant to the corpse with your fingerprints on it. Do you even fucking remember what you promised me? Do you?! It doesn't fucking seem like it because you broke it. You know damn well you did and you couldn't care less. I don't fucking matter anymore because you never needed me. You pretended to just so there was no guilt on your end and after you had done enough I wasn't even worth speaking to anymore. You haven't said a fucking word to me at all. You haven't asked how I felt, you just sit there perfectly content in your safety bubble acting like you aren't just letting someone die in the background. You promised me we wouldn't change no matter what. That's what you said. You said I wouldn't be replaced by him and that our friendship wouldn't fucking change but you let it happen. You broke that promise and did nothing to try and stop it. You really give a shit huh? You abandoned me and left me here to die alone and yet you feel so proud of yourself. You used to call me a brother.  Now you just don't call me at all. I can hear you countering my argument with all these minute instances and inexcusable reasons for why this has happened but I already gave you the chance to show me you still care. And maybe you do. Maybe, just maybe you still have a chance to prove to me you haven't forgotten about me. But we all know that simply isn't true.
Have fun explaining it to the coroner.

I Envy the Dead

Those who come back from near death experiences often go on to try and inform the rest of us unelightened souls about what death feels like. But every utterance out of their mouths is dead wrong. Shitty puns aside, in order for us to feel anything as the bags of flesh we are it takes neurons and nerves to sense them. Both things that are completely decaying along with us. It's difficult to try and perceive pure nothingness due to it being impossible for any Fleshball to experience or process. It scares most conscious transmitters whilst mine is simply enthralled by it. Or rather... just Jealous.
The constant agony that often overcomes me is just all too powerful. So much so that I no longer find waiting for the not so horrid things to be worth it. I have a demon and an angel. Which one you get just depends on what story you've last read and what sort of mood she's in. Anyhow, it's one of the few things that keep me going. They deserve the title of demon not because of malice, but because of their understanding of pain and the poor irony of them constantly delivering it to me unintentionally. Meanwhile, on the other shoulder is the title of angel— The only thing within my thoughts I consider an honest desire.
You see, the demon is below me as she keeps me afloat from the permanent off-switch my foot is only inches away from flicking. Just as the eeriely similar angel stays above me, keeping my focus distracted, we both know I can never reach her and yet my arms won't stop stretching and now I keep wondering that if I just cut it... It would be enough.
Maybe this damnéd skin and worthless heartbeat keep weighing me down. If I get rid of them I'll be lighter. And I won't feel. It's a win win. The demon doesn't need to be held down any further by lack of my will to live. And the angel doesn't have to worry if I'm reaching or not because nothing will matter anymore. It sounds so wonderful. Being dead. So blissful. So peaceful to actually be feeling nothing.
Death is the one angel I can reach and they won't mind reaching back for once.

Drowning

"I'm sitting by myself in my hotel room drinking coffee; while blankly staring at the painting on the wall as Nine Inch Nails plays in the background."
"Sounds like the beginning of a Novel." She said
"It's the story of my life" I replied. Too bad this one won't have a happy ending.

At the time my roommates were all swimming with the rest of the group. There were 13 of us in total. Excluding myself, as I always do. I hated the coffee there. In that sense it just reminded me of my self, flavorless and empty. Feeling nothing as it passes my tongue and a tsunami of self-loathing as each breath passes by. The painting on the wall was simple. I didn't care for it. For the most part just indifferent I didn't have the energy to overanalyze a painting of all things. The thirteen of them actually did invite me down to join them. I kept myself​ from going for a number of reasons. I just... I just didn't fit. Forcing myself down there would only cause awkward bumps in conversation and silent glares of judgement. They all know each other, quite well might I add. Meanwhile they knew my name and a few of my jokes. That's only a portion of who I am and that's something none of them bother to consider. I'm like skin, I have a few layers. The one that everyone sees is thin and dead with no blood running underneath. An activity as interpersonal as swimming I just couldn't with how little they care for me.
Then there's the shirtless part.  For the most part my body doesn't bother me no matter how unappealing it may get. This time it was about infamy. They truly would've never understood it. The infamy of my scale-like left shoulder. It's something no one has really seen except for a select few. With the plethora of times I heard one of them shout "kill yourself" or "Sideways for attention, longways for results" or even flat out mimicking the all too familiar scenario with a plastic knife. I have a dark sense of humor, sure. In fact I'm considered "the worst" by many. Usually it never bothers me since enough people make fun of it, but just the constant onslaught of joke after joke finally got to me. I didn't get concrete proof on their opinions until we had a pain Olympics on the ride home. I remember being the only one who wanted to feel pain, I let my masochism Shine for the moment. And when I mentioned the dead nerve cells in my arm they just looked at me bewildered. They honestly couldn't catch on and they still wouldn't even if I tried.

Another reason I stayed... What if I had gone down? What if they actually didn't ridicule me? Their sudden support would honestly just piss me off more. It all just seems so false. For these people that all think they know me to suddenly give a fuck about how I feel, it's insulting. Why does it take years of agony to get someone to care? Of course this rule has it's exceptions. Any sudden Caring that's born simply out of some destruction I've done to myself or something done to me feels oh so insincere. In my mind, if it were, they would've always been there. I've known the majority of these 13 for 3 years now. It's too late for "if you need someone to talk to I'm here". Bullshit, that spot's taken.
"No one cares unless you're dying or beautiful." I hate this quote Because I keep proving it true to myself. I can only ever be one of those things anyways. When I thought I was, dying that is, I had this sudden influx of attention and concerned tones all of which have never been spoken to me before. A person I haven't spoken to in over a year decided to talk to me only because I was supposedly dying. I haven't heard from them since I got better.
If I would've gone down there with them I would've been too tempted to hold myself back. All I would have to do is sink, they wouldn't notice. They would think it was a joke, it's all I'm known for after all. It would've been easy. I should've. Just for the chance that I might actually get to die. If it weren't for her getting angry with me I would've had  nothing stopping me. Just think of what the headline would've been:
"World Rejoices as Meaningless Death Occurs." Has a nice ring to it, don't ya think?
As I sat there pondering all this, slowly sipping away, more, and more sucking the life out of myself the music beat on. It was a violin. One of my favorite Instruments . It always seemed to exemplify how I felt without words. Something I can't do at all. I remember trying to be a violinist. I was practicing by myself. My first and only song, it's called "A Symphony of Scars". It was the only song I knew how to play. I never got sick of it. My violin was about 15 years old, I didn't have many strings left to play on. There was limited space. This song become a ritual for me to play. Always alone, never to show or tell anyone. The bow I had for it was short with a silver string. When I first learned the song it always hurt to play, but after while, when I kept playing the same notes, torturing the same strings it just stopped hurting all together. It only took about a 1/16 of a pint to play each song. My violin was made from rare wood that bleeds when you cut it, so each time I would play the song the strings got red, then black, then stained. It always took about a week before each song finished playing and the barcodes holding all the sounds and tears that went into playing were finally imprinted onto wood. I haven't played that song in awhile, a part of me misses it and would like to hear it again, but with my addictive personality I shouldn't. They could never read those notes, maybe if I rewrote them for one final performance, I can get that headline after all.