I’ve written 1857 death notes for myself but used none; because when I was finally on the pedestal, I was too numb to even spell out my name. I’ve been 5 centimetres away from the line that separates ‘wishing to die’ and ‘too far to just wish’ for about 62 times in the past 10 years; when I swear I could’ve died but I just didn’t. I’ve taken the tiny step towards that line for a total of 14 times but I never really crossed it.
They say I survived, I say I didn’t. They say I have so many reasons to live, I say are you fucking stupid, what kind of assurance is that? You see I’m a fucking weakling, always fucking exhausted, always fucking frustrated and almost always fucking something or someone. And I’m deaf to your assurances, this is not an insurance policy booth where you could sell life.
So I’m a fucking weakling but I’m also a stupid rebel, almost always doing something I’m not supposed to do; like writing poetry naked in a bathtub, painting while sobbing my eyes out into the river in my painting, or just fucking being miserable, wanting to live or wanting to die. I’m this swing hung up on a tree by the end of the world. I’m this swing-rope that has too many knots to weigh me down, and fucking ugly decorations that resemble numbers and figures like 1857, 62, 14, 10, 0.
I’m this ugly swing by the end of the world with swingers that enjoy the ride, there’s the adrenaline rush and then there’s the joy of looking down from this height. But then there are people, who close their eyes and hold too tightly. Once in a while when they do open their eyes they look straight, and never below. These are the people who know I can break anytime and they’re scared but they still ride; for god knows why.
So I might break anytime because I’m a fucking weakling, and these swinging people would somehow be saved and they’ll know that I was a fucking weakling. I want them to know. I don’t want to be made into a hero, nobody wants a fucking weakling to be idolised. I just want to die when the weights get too heavy and when sobbing doesn’t end. I just want to be, until then.
There might come a day, dear swing swaying scaredy lovers, when you call and I don’t receive at the other end, ever again. When this day comes, when I die, don’t write me a glorious eulogy instead write me letters on the second Friday of every month and tell me things that would’ve made me live a little longer. Don’t weep in memory, just have a fucking memory that isn’t ignited by the occurrence of my death. Remember me for who I was and not for the manner of my departure. So now I remain a fucking weakling even when I’m gone, too scared to live another life just to leave everything behind all over again.