Those glasses impair my perfect vision.

You’re dying I know,

My empathy I refuse to extend.

Because trying to live is all I have left when from every perspective I already feel dead. 

Knowing is dangerous, so I’ll pretend I don’t. 

I am a corpse, and you continue to prod and poke.

This isn’t a morgue, and quite frankly I’d prefer one.

A cold metal table. 

I can fall asleep with the light on. Turn the tv on too. Drown out these thoughts, send me to a dark quiet room in the city of dreams where the life I imagine I might have one day is actually true.


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