Fuck That

I wish the blade
would drink away
all my red pain,
letting it spill out
on the floor,
on the sheets,
the pillows,
as I go to my final sleep,
to be free of the darkness,
walking toward the light,
knowing that I am going to hell,
always knowing
I was going to hell anyway.
So what?
What should I do?
Keep living in this darkness and pain?
Or slip away into violent mediocrity?
Nobody in my life is brave enough
to try and save me.
Nobody wants me to be here.
Sure, they will miss me when I am gone,
but that is superficial and cold, isn’t it?
“Here, you better live in misery,
because if you are gone,
it will make me open my eyes
and weep for a couple of minutes.
And then I will hold
your beautiful memory
in my heart,
which is pretty much all
I am doing now anyway.”  
Fuck that.
You can cry yourself to sleep
when I am gone.