Lately, my purpose in life has been to kill myself on accident. The high points of life have been so minute that I don’t even feel them; they graze my shoulder, like a bullet fired out of a gold rimmed musket. A knife sharpened in the fire pits of a sweat soaked blacksmiths shop cuts my wrists. No, a bullet enters my skull slowly creating a slow falling meteor to the ground, no.
A repeated falling body eyes clenched, hands open, just in time eyes widen slowly.
Arms stretch forward reaching for an embrace of some form. I’m not suicidal, I’m realistic.
I wanted to go outside of my mind; all I saw was flying pigs and gods fighting the darkness that overwhelmed their wings. This is where I hide my things. I got tired of chasing dreams so I decided to stretch my arms out and reach some type of warmth. I found it.
Except I don’t know how to control it too well, my mind is feeble.
You say immature, I just say I’m depressed