to run away or jump off of a cliff.

I get the feeling of wanting to run away from it all. Leaving, packing your bags, getting the hell out of here. It’s the easiest thing to do. Way easier than telling someone that you aren’t okay, that you need help, that you’re floundering, that you can no longer escape your pain. 

To say that I hate it here would be an understatement. I don’t like my life. I don’t love my life. I’m just here. Staring out into a world that I swear doesn’t want me around. Destruction would feel beautiful. I rather feel my limbs being ripped apart than whatever this is inside of my body. Screaming bloody murder in real-time. Jumping off of a cliff, body parts splattered everywhere. 

Jesus refused but I ain’t that holy. 

I promise you that no one would notice that I was missing. My body would sink to the bottom of the river and ain’t nobody around to see the rippling waters dissipate. She’s in her space, she’s in her zone. Yet, she’s dead. There’s peace in that. Because you don’t have to feel anything anymore. 

I have a lot of unfinished end-of-life notes. 

I wonder what makes me want to stay around. Why I keep hoping to know a future with me in it. There’s this ounce of no-quit in me. Maybe a slight fear of failure. I can’t complete most things in life. This would be no difference. I talk often about thinking that I’m not going to be here for long. The ultimate penance would be living longer than my grandmother currently resides on Earth. The truest way that God can show me that despite my desires, despite my dreams, that I am indeed not in control. 

I do want to be here. I do want to love life, to like life. I do want there to be a reason to wake up every morning. I’m tired of secretly asking for God to take me out every time I close my eyes to sleep. I don’t sleep. I haven’t been well in months. My body hurts in ways that it hasn’t before. I’m sick more than I feel okay. I can barely remember the last words I say or food on my plate. That food doesn’t stay down for long anyway. Fatigue. My legs feel seconds away from giving way. I look at the lusts of my life and they don’t move me. I possess only enough energy to breathe. 

I’m supposed to turn 36 in a few days. Supposed. I know I’m celebrating my birthday alone. There’s never anything grand that comes with me. I live within my mind and the four walls of my bedroom that have become an unwelcome refuge. When I hide, I run away from people who could have the capacity to care. I would give them a chance but I fail them a lot. Fail them with their unwarranted expectations of me. I got bodies scattered all up and down the Eastern seaboard. 

All from running away.