I can feel each vein pump the acid blood I’ve created.
And as I die here and the fluid gathers on my mouth I can taste the hatred.
I am unkind and ungrateful, selfish and shameful,
I crave for his misery to feel equivalent to him.

I have killed myself over and over again,
but never had I not revived from death,
I have fought and crawled and hit the ground,
but never had I held my breath.

And the breeze through my fingers is provoking,
it pickers the strings of worn out skin,
the howls of my demons blow up my pupils,
and with the greatest abhorrence I look at myself,
portrayed in the objects victims of myself.