The Thing for Me

The Thing for Me.

I wish I didn’t feel this way.

I wish I didn’t feel alone.

I wish I didn’t feel the need to make it stop.

I’m not brave enough.

To think about the pain.

I think about the physical pain.

Not the pain onto others; no one would mourn me.

No one mourns a nobody.

I suppose I just need somebody.

There is no supposing: I simply do.

I need to feel something worth living for.

I just live to live.

That’s moronic.

Something small is all I need, even in it’s platonic.

What a waste of space.

Which is how I feel.

Everyday since I can remember.

Who are my messages burdening?

Everyone, of course!

That’s what the little voice inside my head screams—Shut up! I implore

Why do I subject myself to life?

Why am I so weak.

It can’t be that painful; better than being meek.

To end it.

Quickly, like so many others.

Others who don’t feel.

The need to be.

Because living life no longer feels, like the thing for me.