I was familiar with death. I held his hand, and I had the memories to prove it. It’s written all over my wrists, and it screams in my expression. It walks my mind everyday, and no matter what I do, I can’t turn back. It’s like my waist is tied to a never ending, unbreakable rope that pulls me along for it’s entertainment. It follows me from place to place; lurking right behind me like a murderer stalks their focused prey. It’s like I can’t run from it, and if I tried it would prove it’s faster then me, and block all existence of escape. I wear it as if it was my own clothing line; it’s like it was made of me, and I let it make me. I walk silently in a real life nightmare, wanting to reach out for help, but held back by deaths persistent pull of everyday situations that didn’t make life seem anymore tasteful to live then it already was. It was my master, and I was it’s all too willing, and helpless follower just looking for an escape, but locked in chains, forevermore held by it’s harsh grip that so tightly forces me to the ground in pain, and desperation. It feeds on my unhappiness, and drinks from my endless river of tears that I shamefully cry when no one cares to watch me sulk in the hole I dug myself all too quickly. Over and over again I write on my wrists, trying so hard to be free of the unknown disease that lurks in my body; wanting so much to find a cure to the alien emotion that ties itself to my very soul.
    

I have so much to live for; so much that I should be happy about, but the darkness suffocates me like a bag would suffocate a small child if it were put around their head and held their until their breathing drew to a slow halt. Not only does it bury me into the ground, it buries my happiness along with it, but I’m under so much soil and rock that I can’t reach out to smack it in the face and scream at it to stop; I just let it happen.