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Escape

If the scratches on my bare flesh don’t give enough of a hint that I’m dying, then I don’t know what does. Death. The word itself is so cold, but its embrace is so warm. I can feel it within my grasp, inching closer and closer to the exposed blood which, ever so slowly, creeps from the deep crevices between my skin and bone - stinging the flesh, yet the sensation only brings me more hope.

I used to be ignorant. I used to believe that death was the worst thing that could happen. But, I was wrong. A person who thinks that death is the worst thing that can happen doesn’t know a thing or two about being alive. Alive is sorrow. Alive is agony. Alive is anguish and deprivation and suffering and tears and is horrendous. And the only path to freedom is death.
Death grabs my hand. Death leads me to a place of wisp and whimsy. Death sits me next to a fire. Death warms the shivering flesh left from the bitter world. Death doesn’t judge me. Death saves me from the horrors of reality. Death will be there. I know.


Steaming tears of torrid fire scamper down the dead flesh that god cursed me with and leave marks of red and clear to prove that it was alive. That my anguish is real. That anguish is taking over. That anguish captivated me in its abyss and will never let me out and that I have to survive alone in its cold, dark premise.
I want to die. No more, no less. Why?


I look around and see what I did for those who I thought sided with me for those 22 years of lies. I see what I did for them, and what the world did to me.





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