December.

It's funny, I haven't had time to think,
and still my thoughts, my only thoughts,
clash against my skull in shapes of pills
and tightening ropes.

I don't need to see into the future to see
us unravel, die down into our own, I have
seen it happen, I have felt it go...it kills
slowly.

I struggle to break a path for me to find
something, anything, but it's useless, I know
very well anything farther from here is an
ending that could satisfy my deepest fears,
the cruelty of me waiting to fail.

I am always cruelest when it comes to myself.
It's impossible to settle for one or another
type of failure, just pick, die slowly, die
angry, just pick, just choose, you can't afford
anymore loss.

I don't know.

I know.

It's always the same, reach that goal that seems
so syrupy, plastic stiff against your shoulders,
that one that will dictate you worth, but wasn't
it supposed to happen sooner? I think I'm too late
for denial, for disgust and resignation.

It's funny, I haven't had time to think,
but when I have, it's always a danger close
to my end, bringing down walls and filling
empty rooms.