Some of us would rather die slowly than all at once. Like denying yourself the mercy of the end’s sweet embrace— instead of falling off the cliff face, you take the slowest descent down suffering’s spiral staircase. The destination’s the same— but you take the scenic route.
You can kill a flame by throwing water on it, stealing the air from its lungs. It coughs, it sputters, it dies before your eyes. Or, you can steal the logs from under, one by one— you can watch it cling to what fuel remains. You can watch it emaciate itself until all that’s left is bone. You can watch it crumble.
I took a log from under myself so life couldn’t. I stole the breath from my own lungs, refusing to let someone who filled them walk away, leaving me gasping. It was the chemotherapy of the spirit, the indiscriminate erasure of all that I was, if only to escape that place of pain.
Self-harm, it takes casualties: innocents taken in the line of fire. You raise the blade, you hope to excavate the virus. Healthy tissue’s taken with, civilians slain— all the while, the enemies replicate.
THE CLOSET MYSTIC 