I’m Tired of Pretending

this year I was meant to be cooling by myself, to pay my debts off, send time with my mother and plan my departure.

See i’m on a strict timeline, I got two more continents to visit before I turn 30.

When some people are small they dream of a man and a house and a career.

I said I wanted to die for the first time when I was 8. By age 15 it became my motivation to change something in the world into something good, leave my impact and die at age 30.

They’d sing James Blake at my Funeral, and they’d show my twin to live her life to the fullest.

I’ve tried to off myself a few times since then — one serious overdose, one not so serious incident on a train track, each time becoming more and more scared of the pain.

Some sucker would always drag me out of it though, and before long I’m silently plotting for the big 3–0.

My pile of letters I keep at my mums house has gotten so big now. Every new connection, every new sense of hope gets a name and a letter letting them know I’m not worth anything.

Every no and then something great happens and convinces me to stay, it’s usually a taste of love. Then I ruin it, its like all great actions and rational thinking vanishes when I’m scared of love — I keep my back up and I only know how to articulate through shit that makes other people feel unsafe.

I Wish some of you knew I weren’t made from love.