LastLoveLetter
Persephone
- Mar 28, 2021
- 657
If our bodies are supposed to be temples, mine is a dilapidated house built from wood. It creaks and splinters, parts are missing, parts rot away. It is rigid and inflexible, extensively damaged but the foundation is still barely standing.
I have attempted to polish it, to sweep away the cobwebs of pain and trauma, to repair its ruptures, but it doesn't take long to begin to fall apart again. I feel the familiar creak of my limbs and crack of my joints and know that this is a house that can never become a home. It will never be decorated with warmth and love and trinkets that remember a life that has been explored and ventured and lived. It will only exist.
Suicide is being in the driving seat of the bulldozer. It's deciding that it's more merciful to knock it down, rather than wait for it to yield and collapse.
There is nothing strong or brave about barely standing until I eventually fall. There is nothing hopeful about leaving the inevitable in the hands of nature or mankind. There is nothing inspiring about creaking and breaking and rotting, to appease those who prefer to see me stand for a little while longer.
Medication, alcohol, cigarettes and therapy are all temporary fixes. It's like patching up the broken wood with flimsy tape. It's putting a plaster on a gaping wound and telling me to hurry along as they ignore the blood seeping out and trailing behind me everywhere I go.
Death is the lifeboat in the middle of a tumultuous ocean, the eye of the storm. It's not the lifeboat of death that will destroy me, it's the ocean of life, with its relentless waves drowning my cries and shattering my bones. Death is the the kind hand that reaches out and shows me the shore, the soft voice that whispers "You are safe now."
I have attempted to polish it, to sweep away the cobwebs of pain and trauma, to repair its ruptures, but it doesn't take long to begin to fall apart again. I feel the familiar creak of my limbs and crack of my joints and know that this is a house that can never become a home. It will never be decorated with warmth and love and trinkets that remember a life that has been explored and ventured and lived. It will only exist.
Suicide is being in the driving seat of the bulldozer. It's deciding that it's more merciful to knock it down, rather than wait for it to yield and collapse.
There is nothing strong or brave about barely standing until I eventually fall. There is nothing hopeful about leaving the inevitable in the hands of nature or mankind. There is nothing inspiring about creaking and breaking and rotting, to appease those who prefer to see me stand for a little while longer.
Medication, alcohol, cigarettes and therapy are all temporary fixes. It's like patching up the broken wood with flimsy tape. It's putting a plaster on a gaping wound and telling me to hurry along as they ignore the blood seeping out and trailing behind me everywhere I go.
Death is the lifeboat in the middle of a tumultuous ocean, the eye of the storm. It's not the lifeboat of death that will destroy me, it's the ocean of life, with its relentless waves drowning my cries and shattering my bones. Death is the the kind hand that reaches out and shows me the shore, the soft voice that whispers "You are safe now."
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