Ha. Haha. Shining. Ha.

Do you know that state of complete and utter rage?
Where you don't care anymore, where you don't care.
You don't, and you're angry.

Well I'm angry.
Not only that, I'm sad. Yes. Sad. Not 'upset', not 'fine', I'm fucking sad, okay?

I just...I don't like this. Any of this.
Any of it, so what's the point?

Complete, utter, total...they're all so extreme.

But this is like the edge of a canyon. Your breath whispers and echoes off the edges of the canyon walls, all the way from the very top to the darkest, deepest bottom.
It can't get back up.
It's stuck.
Your air is stuck, somewhere else.

At what point do you own the air that swims through the murky lake of your lungs? At what point is it okay to admit it's called drowning, to admit it's no longer air, to admit you're choking?

And they scream, "Choke, choke, choke, choke!"
And I'm so fucking tempted to scream, "Maybe I fucking will!" right back in their perfect little faces. 


Maybe I'll tell them in my whispers... Maybe I'll pull my whispers back up the canyon, letting them crawl up like vines, and say, "Maybe I fucking will. Yeah? Maybe I'll fucking choke, and with my last breath, whisper your fucking name."
And as my pulse.
beats.
slow.
I'll say, "Don't you know? The brightest stars are the closest to explode."
"Don't you know? They're the closest,
easiest.
They're ready to fall to some other galaxy, 
where there's no other stars,
and it's just them in darkness."


Or maybe I won't even say that. Maybe I'll just smile, and say, "Fuck you." 
Because after all, that's what we're told to do.

We're told to suck it up,
but,
"Fuck that."