I’m sitting on a cliff, which is a stair (it will always be and is a stair) I have the cigarette in my throat, the fire is my fingers and the cancer is my life. 

People pass by (or not) (I don’t know) (A lot doesn’t matter now) and everything is happening in a heartbeat of a heartbeat (of another heartbeat), and I’m wet, dirty, defeated, tired, yawned upon and murdered. 

I’m sitting with my legs shaking, my veins singing and my bones burning, I am “Enough, I’m done because every night thanking God for another day feels like a confession I never wanted to make.”

And that’s why I’m sitting on the stairs that take me to cars that lead me to death and pain and break and end.

And you wanted to know how it is, but not how it looks, so still, at this moment of my life my smile is sewn, and I’m sitting with an absence in my chest. People happen around me, and I’m destroying myself because it hurts to feel my blood run, to hear my heartbeat, and to be the witness of all, and for that, I’m sitting. 

Because it’s an electric chair, that if I move I die, and I’m a statue without money, that doesn’t blink, breathe, or call for attention. Because the lion is the Grim Reaper and the gazelle, it’s me sitting and traumatized by everything that I know that I don’t feel, but that frightens me. 

TA.