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.