so i’m eighteen now
and oh s***,
and it should be spring,
but I still see snow and feel the wind

howling at my house,
as if the world
in all its indifference
has decided it'd be fun
to pull my home down
around myself.
fine then,
asphyxiate me in the dirt.

why not.
it'd feel nice
to stubbornly die.
I could crack my knuckles and spit
at the horrible sun shimmering through
the snow swells on the wind,
as I internally drown.
It'd be a reassurance
that it has always been the world against me.

I don’t know why I’m pissed,
I see no reason for this,
and also everything else.

when I was seven, I thought I was getting old
and the passing of every day,
with the blood red
sunset, filled me with dread,
while the sunrise filled me with fear
of the morning and all the games
that I would have to play
to make it through another dreadful day,
filled with sun and smiles on the playground.
as I stood sick and joked with all the kids
who thought I was funny
and whose friendships I feared,
because god knows why,
I was weird.

those days are long gone,
and I’ve been spiraling since birth,
so now they're much worse.
I’ve lost so much of myself to stay alive.
I wear the worst of myself on my sleeve,
my silence speaks for me:
“I’ve emptied myself,
but I’ve survived,”
it says.
though I guess, only
by broadening my definition of “life.”
apathetic breathing is enough,
I suppose,
and toss some salt
and self-hatred
into that wound.
It's cathartic when it burns
and I scream anonymously,
so only I can hear
the great black swell in my ears.

I’m young,
supposed to be on the cusp of stuff.
though I’ve gotten better before,
I see I’ll only get worse.
cause
whenever something nice,
resembling life
begins to grow,
wrapping its roots around my lower ribs,
sprouting green in my chest,
I don’t know how to let it out
into the sunlight and the spring,
so it festers and dies,
locked up inside me,
withering with the snow squalls
that scatter this perpetual winter,
which on the basest level
is what I’ve become.

Harsh and cold.
desolate,
consistent in my dark quirks,
and so lonely
when I move slow
and the moon hangs romantic and low
and I know morning won't being change
and another year won't bring spring.