Loading the Gun

         Supine in a grave of my design. Earth slowly covers me. Suffocation imminent. Willing myself to hold on and get up. Moving is impossible. Did I place myself here? Allowing this to be my eternal grave of perdition. Starting this was a place to hide, to run away from everything. Nothing could reach me. Especially not myself. Numbness only resides here. A bottomless void fades into an entirety. Not remembering when I stopped finding the line where numbness should end then self should begin. No savior can deliver me from the wasteland I have become. No rescue. No safety net. Everything around me became infectious then I became breathless. Feeling death encroaching welcoming it more over time. The arrival of the end, asphyxiation in all its fruition. A secret hidden place that slowly drifted into a disease. Pestilence sliding everything I've known into obliteration. Giving me no heartbeat. Termination. A grave dug by only me. This grave is at capacity filled with nothing and only a shadow of what I used to be. Tragedy, a distinct calamity. We can scream all we want. There is nothing left of me. Soon you’ll forget about me too. Sweet release. Be free. Let go of this casualty.

Putrid Fruit of Dependency