I Accidentally Lived

I’m living, but I’m not alive. Human biology prevents me from holding my breath for too long and survival instincts prohibit the drugs from shutting down my body. The overdose quantity of acetaminophen, Dramamine, and caffeine do not stand a chance against thousands of years of perseverance; and all of that history and perseverance is embedded in DNA, thriving in me and laying dormant. I’m killing it, because I can’t be a part of that humanity. I never belonged with them. I never belonged anywhere. I’m living, but I’m not enjoying life.

I’ve only accidentally made it to the next day. If fate and life were in my hands, I’d give up all my tomorrows to someone who deserves them. Someone who doesn’t deserve their life to be cut short and is really fighting blood and struggle to stay alive, to keep breathing.

I’ve only accidentally made it to tomorrow and it hurts. It hurts to see the sun, to feel the hollow hole in my chest pulse and spread like a disease. It’s painful to hate myself and know I can’t do anything about it. It’s intolerable for someone as ugly, worthless, rude, pathetic, and (insert all negative insults here, I’ve heard them all) as I to be allowed to live a life that I loathe. I never wanted to live this long. It’s cliche to say but I didn’t ask to be born.

I’ve only accidentally made it to today and I know that I’m sorry, so sorry to be such an eyesore for people. Sorry you’re forced to lay attention to my anxious and depressed moods. This awkwardness is suffocating because there’s a girl inside, maybe in an alternative world, that is shaking your hand and talking with sheer confidence. And you’re giving her your attention because you really want to, because she’s beautiful and unique and isn’t held down, because she’s what you want to see. She’s everything I’m not and I’m sorry for that.

I’ve only accidentally made it to share this repetitive life because God ignores all of my prayers to kill me.

And I’m sorry. I’ll be sorry until I’m dead.