This is a part of me, a part that I cannot kill.
Without it, I can live, but not in a state which would
enable me to label myself as alive.
Slightly ironic, seeing that being in this state puts me on
the very narrow border between returning to the old feelings
of suicidal need, and simple attention need.
And just as so long before, even now I'm not sure I can tell
on which of the two I stand.
I won't repeat those old mistakes, won't add to the scars
that already adorn my skin.
The mental ones are so much worse.
So much deeper.
They make a colorful collage between the few grey brain
cells I've got left. But color fades as the ink runs out,
And I'm not certain if I'm capable of refilling at the
moment.

This is a part of me, a part that I cannot kill.
I've tried it before, and failed every time.
I've lost the comfortness of my misery and shuddered in an
apathic breeze.
It felt naked, and although I can't say there is peace with
it, there most definetly is no peace without.
Pretending otherwise was foolish. Masks can only hold for so
long.

This is a part of me, a part that I cannot kill.
I've tried it before.
Several times.
And failed.

This isn't only a part of me.
This is me.
And although I cannot say on which of the two I stand, I
know I can't end this.
Not now.