The Smallest Scratch

There is a fear of living

That no one else can see.

There is a sickness to breath,

I don’t know if it’s felt by anyone but me.

There is an excitement for death,

No one else’s, just my own.

An anticipation for an end

Where nobody is sad. Nobody cries. Nobody is alone.

Martyrs await execution with amity,

With joy and content in their resolve,

Mourners weep, yet they know it was right.

The cultural pain of death is absolved.

From the smallest scratch bleeds a longing not to be,

I know that’s not normal of a mind.

Yet if one has tried and tried to change, but never has achieved,

Why shouldn’t one listen to the desire?

I will not make anyone sad.

That’s the only thing that has kept me alive.

But if making people happy, if people pleasing, is bad,

Why should I not put an end to this trial?