I'm Thinking About Ending Things

I’m thinking about ending things.

You are small.

You have always been small.

Not small like a mouse.

Or a butterfly.

Small like a virus.

Where you don’t even realize

that your nature, your own existence

ruins everything you touch—

forever imprinted into the DNA

of those that you claimed you cared about.

Imagine permanently damaging

or killing everything you touch.

Everyone.

A waste.

A waste of resources.

A waste of time.

I’m thinking about ending things.

A parasite.

Life sucker.

Joy stealer.

Faulty.

You were never supposed to be born anyway.

Cancer tried to keep you from existence

and it’s the exact thing you’ve turned into.

You spread, slowly, trustingly,

into every part, every cell of a person—

until you kill them.

But you don’t kill them out of malice.

You kill them because you wanted to be part of something.

You wanted to be loved.

Happy.

Protected.

It’s not your fault you were born a cancer.

A parasite.

A virus.

It’s not your fault for wanting

what every human wants.

But you’re not human.

You’re a cancer.

A parasite.

A virus.

Life isn’t fair

and you don’t get to choose how you’re born.

You just have to come to the reality of what you are.

I’m thinking about ending things.

You’re not normal.

Defect.

You can hide behind your intelligence.

Your experience.

Your quick thinking.

Your cunning.

You can hide behind pretty eyes

and a shoulder to cry on.

You can hide behind a shield

you hold up for others

because you are so desperate for love

that you’ll do anything for them.

But it’s not good enough.

You can’t do anything right.

You can’t even love right.

I’m thinking about ending things.

Love with no place to go is grief.

It’s obsession.

It will eat you little by little,

bit by bit,

ripping tiny pieces of your flesh away slowly

until nothing is there but cold.

You’re just cold.

And you do anything

to make yourself feel warm again.

But it’s still eating you.

Hollow.

Into a shell.

Into nothing.

Because you are nothing.

You’ve always been nothing.

At your best, you were something to pass time.

A crutch.

An appetizer.

Because you’ve always been nothing.

But a cancer.

A parasite.

A virus.

I’m thinking about ending things.

They plead with you and scream at you to change.

They tell you how simple it is.

Do this.

Do that.

But you can’t tell a virus to heal someone.

You can’t tell a cancer not to harm.

You can’t tell a parasite

not to keep themselves alive

by stealing someone else’s life.

You are what you are.

I’m sorry that this is you.

I’m sorry you’re tired.

So so tired.

The kind of tired

that no amount of minutes, hours, days,

years of sleep will fix.

Because you can’t fix faulty.

You can’t fix defective.

You are too much.

You have always been too much.

You have always been too much

and never enough.

You deserve everything you get.

You are poison.

It doesn’t matter what your intentions are.

You ruin everything you touch.

Because you’re a cancer.

A parasite.

A virus.

Leave people alone.

Give them their life back.

No one deserves to have you in their life.

No one deserves to be punished for your nature.

Let them go.

Let them out of your web

because it’s not their fault

they were born butterflies

and you were born a widow.

Your nature is to kill

and to harm

and to ruin everything.

Like a cancer.

Like a parasite.

Like a virus.

I’m thinking about ending things.