I wish I could float through the cold air naked,
For every touch of cloth or material against my skin feels
as if I am being stabed with burning knives.
My entire body is soar and burning in hells fire.
This is my ending, or at least so it seems.
Some of the time, would have happily pulled the trigger of a
gun pressed against my temple or heart (which one, I do not
mind).
Another part of it, I would be the one to operate the knife
pressed against my wrist or throat.
And what about the rest of it, you ask?
Well, in the time that is left, I mourn the bars upon my
window and wish that I would grow a pair of wings and fly
away.
I wish to fly away and be free.
I wish to fly away and be with him.
I wish to fly away, savoring the silent ans sacred moments.


I hate being ill.