BEWARE
Death couldn't stop you.
And you couldn't stop death.
Yet you still walk the land, pretending to live.
Every meal, martyrdom.
Every day, indiscernible.
Every moment that transcurs you forget yourself more and more.
First it was hours.
Then it was days.
Months.
You rue the day where entire years will find the will to flee from your memory.
Death couldn't stop you.
You were never much for superstition.
Yet they forgot alongside you.
Your last tuesday together.
Would eventually turn to this awesome meal they had at a restaurant.
Things you did wouldn't stick for long.
'Where have you been?' they would ask 'I haven't seen you in so long.'
It took a while for it to click.
It took a while for me to forget again.
I don't think they know I'm here.
I scribble in the pages, trying to cement myself, but everything slowly reverts.
I scream in their faces. Cry. Beg. I open them and watch them bleed for me.
The cold doesn't mark my breath, the dirt no longer registers my footsteps.
I am a projection of light in a backwards crystal, an empty breeze of wind coming undone before it can reach the trees.
Dust in my walls, stagnant water in the buckets, there is no food in my fridge, no money in my wallet.
The corpse of my dog lays rotten at my feet, and no one can hear me scream.
I can no longer recall the day of my first suicide.
Only, vaguely, the sense that it gets worse every time.
Yet, every day, I still get up from bed, for some reason.
They will not remember, but thankfully, neither will I.
The smell no longer bothers me, I think I've come to realize, smells aren't real.
Sometimes, I feel empty inside.
And sometimes.
I wonder if I am.