It’s past 4am and I can’t get any sleep. My pain on my back hurts so bad it makes my eyes water. It’s the searing, burning sort. The stitches must have burst because I keep fidgeting. My sheets are sticky – stained with blood. My blood.
I miss everyone. It’s so lonely here, death is my only companion. He looks down at me, defenceless and immobile, his eyes glinting like embedded scarlet rubies in Tutankhamen’s cursed relics. He waits with open arms. I’m not afraid of him, but I’m afraid of suffering. I’m not afraid of pain, but I’m afraid of excessive pain. I’m not afraid of the dark, but I want someone to hold on to, to hug and to tell me I’m going recover from this because I will tap out soon.
I am powerless and utterly desolate. I hate to be on the drip, because your entire being is at the mercy of a machine. A fucking machine.
I hate this and I hate the fucking pain. I wished I fucked when I had the chance to.
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2 comments:
what's wrong darl? death's not ur friend. i am.
my dear man, you will recover soon. don't be afraid okay? it hurts me to see you in so much pain.
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