sing it to yourself

the white of the world is so
devoid of the holes in the nightsky
it has sunken my eyes
three inches further inside my skull
i feel my eyes shifting
in the agony of being cleansed
every now and then
why can’t it suffer a bit more
without giving in to comfort
comfort – oh, it’s the skin i wear
so thick it has grown, my flesh
no longer knows the pain that
this life was meant to be
yet on some nostalgic days
it drags comfort in
front of the mirror

“ever wondered why your eyes cannot meet mine?
why you cannot sleep without killing yourself atleast five times?
why you have no right to a choice?
why you can like only your own versions of real-people?
why your ugliness demands respect?”

i hope i destroy myself
more than i have already
so much so that every inch
of my flesh rots while i am still alive
for all the ill that i have wished
on people who have done the same for me
or perhaps not
there’s no way of knowing
and while i am in the process
of mouldering into shells and cells of
my loathsome beliefs
i’ll climb the walls of my comfort
to have a better view of the last white