I want to die. Everyday, a little bit; a lot a bit. I kill myself slowly; more quickly in my dreams. Violently. Silently creeping across the world on my knees trying to die without dying. Hope makes this possible.

Am I the light or the darkness? Am I the fine line that makes me know they both exist? An edge of an edge, blending, bleeding over into both; the shadow of each incarnation.

You thought you were god. Your petty little dreams proof of supremacy and yet what gods are knocked on their asses by a little death, disappointment, a little bad timing? You were never going to be a god with such tiny little hopes and fears to match.

Expose all of it: your ugly self, your indistinct from any, separate from none dull aches and pains, the crosses you built to bear? To bare? Both. Either. You think smallness is a curse. How blind.

All this beauty and you think death, your death could make it go away. Shame on you. Shame.