The day is done.

I've wasted the morning light again.

Picking at scabs and inflicting new wounds.

A dark cycle, set itself on repeat, a clip of defeat.

They play it over and over, again and again inside my head.

If I can't be living, then why can't I be dead?



I lay on the floor again today.

And stared up at the celing.

Willing it to come crashing down on my head.

If I can't be living, then why can't I be dead?