the eyes are the give away. they are dull and faded from past glory.

my eyes write eulogies my head cannot possibly cash.  exhausted and desperate. my wrists are simply landing points and extraction zones for the blades and second chances.  Die alone in an unmarked grave for an unremarkable life.  I'm tired of the diagnosis, I simply want a prognosis of how to make this better.  Remind the doctors that the clock is ticking.  I don't have forever.

I

Am


Not




Well