Attempted Murder

I’m forever trapped within my own murdered body. Without the courtesy of being fully dead. If this is the reward of surviving, I wish I never did.

This is no reward. The gift of life is no longer a gift when it is gifted to the miserable— to the bleeding, the suffering whose suffering will only grow with every breath they take. I want to go home, and that really sucks. But what sucks even more is that I want to live. I want to live and because of that, I can’t put an end to my own suffering. I’m weak, it isn’t strength, it’s weakness because I know this pain will not subside. Not on this earth. I spend my dead life praying I’ll live again, but I know… I know that won’t happen till I’m gone. Life and healing waits for me in eternity, in Heaven. But I’ve chosen suffering… because I don’t want to go. Not yet. I’m holding on to desires.. to dreams… and I don’t even know anymore if it is those dreams that have saved me, or dragged me here to begin with.

No, I guess the sickest part of this all is that if I had to survive, I wish the killing never ended. Or rather, the kill that never came. I wish to be pinned against that wall or that mattress with that body pressed on mine and that knife against my throat… so that whether I look into the eyes of my attempted killer, the reflection in the blade, or the mirror behind him… I would’ve never split… and I would’ve never died…

Somehow it is more comforting to imagine living for forever at the hands of my attempted murderer than escaping after the deed has already been done. Because you never really escaped. What’s done is done and you’re just the suffering ghost of what remains. But if you could somehow stay forever living in between the mind of an innocent child and your enemy’s harsh and bloody hands.. I would rather have remained within the eye of that storm. I’d chose that pain over the pain I suffer now.. any day. It’s that or true death.

But not this. I’d never chose this.