लाइब्रेरी में जोड़ें

My Story

I remember an ominous shadow crouched over me
Then the plastic bag being forced over my head, asphyxiating me.
I remember screaming for help
But I wasn’t making any sound
My head began to feel like the Earth itself.
I wonder, is this how Atlas feels?
Fragments of chaotic hallucinations
And dreams being played backwards
Began to take over, and I fell.
But I dont remember that part
Several hours later, millions of heartbeats sooner
I wake up in a bathroom stained with blood.
Cruel graffiti engraved on tiles
Like the poetry of savages before me
Or the artwork of deviants, not so different from me
Say, what is the name of this place?
Does it go by names past vandals gave it?
Like ‘Hate’ or ‘War’?
No, I’ll simply call it Oblivion.
After all, no one is here.
There’s stains of blood and grime everywhere.
There’s an empty bottle of pain pills with the cap missing.
I think there’s a skull in the opposite corner.
There’s a knife lodged in the skull.
That skull used to belong to someone.
Perhaps me?
Maybe this is what it’s like to be dead.
There’s a wooden door with paint flakes chipping off like crystals.
Beyond the door, I can hear music.
A song so beautifully crafted, so enchanted, so haunted.
Maybe it’s the soundtrack to my own requiem.
In the gore-stained mirror, a familiar face
Like a sacred lily in a garden of poison hemlock
But lilies are toxic too.
Even though they appear pretty.
So I grab the skull and smash the mirror with it.
Screaming death cries as the glass shatters.
My friend, my familiar friend, greets me.
With a wicked, sinister flame blazing in her eyes.
A thousand scars drawn on her face
I read the scriptures embedded within these scars
And see the entire synopsis of my life.
Without syntax, just a random mixture of words.
But I can extract meaning from the chaos.
I read the sickly sweet, corrupted fable of my childhood.
Black sheep are slaughtered on the fascist altar of sacrifice.
I’m running away, the shepherd is chasing after me
All the villagers are chanting funeral hymns.
All these images are corrupt.
So I pry the knife from the skull
And jam it into her heart.
But there is no heart.
Only endless darkness, and she vanishes.
I have achieved masochistic euphoria.
Everything is back to the way it was before.
There’s water dripping from the ceiling.
A spider’s web is hanging like a tapestry.
And suddenly, I remember where I put the cap to the pain pills.
I reach into my pocket, grab the cap, and screw it back on.
I read the warning label
Possible side effects include: madness, despair, misery, agony
Then I noticed something about the skull
It was handcrafted.
Just like the religions of the world.
It must be God’s skull.
The music in the other room has ceased.
The door swings open.
And there are 5000 people with plastic bags covering their heads.
Standing there, lifeless, like a photograph.
And they all have something in common.
They all want to kill me.
They all want
To kill