Time Bomb

Once upon a time, my best friend told me I was a Time Bomb. That I was in a constant self-destruct mode; it wasn't a matter of how I did it but when.

I never thought about it before then but I think she's right.

Whenever I'm alone, I can't stop thinking of what it would be like to stop breathing, what it would feel like when my heart stopped beating.

I'd think: Would I feel peace? Would the constant itching to peel away my skin and expose my bones finally go away? Would my soul look over my body?

Would I finally feel an emotion?

I couldn't tell you if its my depression or lack of sleep that causes these thoughts or if it's both. But I can tell you how I can't stop thinking about how I'll finally stop the pure, raw hatred I feel towards myself.

Will the itch become too much? Will I turn to a gun? Or pills? Or alcohol? Will I do it quick? Or will I drag this out? Will the cigarettes finally catch up to me, because I'll light one up as soon as I'm done telling you this tale.

I'll think about the ones I'll leave behind. But then I'll think: it's so easy for them to walk away from me so why should I care? Because they always leave. The irony of that, the ones you love the most are always the ones to leave you first.

She's right, you know, I'm a ticking Time Bomb.