What is it like to die alone?
How does it feel to be always skirting the edges?

I never said that I'd rather be dead but I've thought about the end. So many times. Way too many times.

It disgusts me how I am drunk on both hope and despair. Which wound up getting myself hurt over and over again.

I drive myself insane with desire, denial and delusions. No matter how many times I tell myself, I deny reality and plainly refuse to see things the way they are. Because I'm always too scared. Always fearful of expectations, disappointments and resentment.

Every night, they try to bring me down to keep me sane. This neverending cycle of self bashing. And this ensemble up here is getting berserk.

But they can never win.
Because denial feels too damn good.