This shell has a mind of its own.

Recently,

Your body seems to know you more than you do,

when you’re exhausted,

it decides to shut down,

automatically on autopilot;

you gradually give in to the darkness that fills your eyes,

If only it can fill my heart too, I could then be banished to a different world, 

you whisper under your breath as your mind leaves reality.

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Stating the obvious. (because procrastination)

I wish I came from a society that encouraged us to explore the world the way that we want to.

To make mistakes and challenge ourself how to overcome them.

To meet strangers and learn what it means to be betrayed or to be hopeful that there is still good in the world.

To construct our own philosophy of life and its values.

A bit more freedom.

Rather than having these forced concepts placed upon us.

Giving birth to beings who are dependent on their family,

Like they’re on a cursed leash.

I wish and I complain and I still rant.

But I still love where I come from,

Even if I constantly damn them for almost everything.

I am a contradictor,

Sue me.

How many do I need to smoke to burn…?

Chain-smoking.

A new hobby, a habit.

How many do I need to smoke to burn my lungs?

How black are my lungs now?

Are they black as my soul?

Stained by all of the sins I’ve done and will do?

How will I describe them if I ever dissect myself?

Black as charcoal?

Black as midnight with a few popping stars that faintly shine, indicating some kind of existing hope?

How many do I need to smoke to destroy my lungs, so it can shut-down my heart?

Why do I need to indirectly damage my heart?

Why don’t I just get a knife and stab it already and get it over with?

Why all of this dramatic slow suicide?

Ah, yes.

Forgive me, I seem to have forgotten.

I don’t want them to directly look and know that the problem lies in my heart.

I don’t want them to find the name carved within that bloody muscle.

I don’t want them to blame you.

I don’t want them to find out about all this love that I am saving for you.

I don’t want them to find the painful sufferings and point their fingers at you.

I don’t want you to know that these are my true emotions towards you.

I don’t want my strong self to be crushed by this weakly that I am now.

I want the love I have in this beating muscle of mine to be hidden from prying eyes, including you.

I want to burn it along with my soul and leave no trace of it in this cruel world.

So tell me,

How many do I need to smoke to burn my existence from history?