fade

I kinda hate myself most of the time
not in dramatic ways that make good stories
just the constant background noise
of knowin exactly who I am

each breath I take feels stolen
taken from lungs more deservin of air
each heartbeat an unpaid debt
countin all of my wasted time

my touch turns the world to ash
crumblin beneath poisoned fingers
leavin nothin but gray remains
where warmth once lived

what grace there would be in vanishin
what kindness in disappearin
like nightmares with the mornin sun
leavin only relief in my wake