Am I Alive?

I don’t know how anyone could believe that they might be the hero in their own story. For as long as I can remember, I have been anything but. From my youth to this very day, my life has been morally ambiguous, often downright immoral even if just. I have always known what was right and what was wrong. I tip-toed the line as often as I could. For brief moments when I look back on my journey, moments of guilt have surfaced. On the rare occasions in which I’ve asked for forgiveness and to atone for the highlight reel of fuckups, responses, if any was given, were laughter. My hatred of all people has always made those few moments of trusting individuals gut wrench when the inevitable occurs. No matter what I have done or what I try to fill the holes with, I am yet to be fulfilled. I am the poison in my life. My worth is great, but my meaning is immaterial. What I once was is gone and yet parts remain, only the vile. What can I do when I have no will to fight the tide? When the ground does not exist and the fiery hell has not consumed my flesh, the blade is all I have left. Marked, my face and legs, I stand weakly. Soon the blood will flow, but by which method? The noose is out. It no longer works. Drowning? Takes to bloody long. Fire is not possible without unknowns. This is my punishment for living, not theirs because I entered their life. Carotid, wrist, ankle? The blade has sliced my face and pierced my leg, and yet I do not feel it. I did not feel anything. The pain never registered. Played, led on, taken for a fool. That is what I am. It was always my undoing, believing someone just might give a shit about me. Boy, was I wrong? I should have never allowed myself to feel a damn thing. No one is ever wanting to be there for you when your insecurities are right on the surface, giving your story the disease in which you really find yourself as. What is left when all you know is pain, cock teases, and pesky “gifts” you’d return for free. Understanding people hasn’t allowed me to entreat my deepest, darkest secrets. On the contrary, it has led to more anger with the predictability of events. Not my fucking problem. Well, at least so long as people stay away from me, it isn’t. It is so exhausting to give a flying fuck. I can only warn that the path being followed is ill-advised. It’s not like I haven’t destroyed 3 marriages and several relationships.