My brain is but an empty canvas. It’s so impressionable. The chemicals and symbols slowly color it as paint is absorbed pixel at a time. Dot by dot. My fingertips feel numb. My feet are cold. Nerves are just about dead. I’m ready for this amputation. There’s still a part of me that won’t let go, but now my canvas is red. It’s blue and orange. Purple. The lids trembles against the gravity. Let them fly, I would say if I could speak. Nothing comes out but a whisper. No fear, no anxiety, just sullen expectation and acceptance. Is it you who once told me about theraflu? Well. Thank you. Your advice is well served. My last breathe. Inhale. Exhale. Out.
Sometimes I hate my inability to deceive as much as the casual lies I tell for no reason.
Only if I could believe that what it is is what it is.
+ I’m not regretting what I’ve done. I just want to move on and pretend as if there’s nothing I can regret. Why is it that the decisions I later regret are the ones that seems right at those moments? Still I try. It’s better to _____ whether you win or lose or die.
