Poetry: Daria Dying

I am dying—not denying that dying is something I’ve been failing to do  
for too many years, falling in tears
and sweat. 
I am like a spider needing the net
to catch something  
that would be something for me and for others to take.

What did they do to deserve to be caught? Did they leave my life or did they leave not? I’m trying to be fulfilled, to be excellent, to be perfect and unspeakably, critically unforgettable. Is this mix even eatable?

And flexible—flexible—I did work on my flexibility. I increased my ability to bend, to bend over, to bend under the band, under the pressure of time, people, opinions and dogmas, and something that I didn’t know what it was.

I fold the pressure with tears, and like a tired horse, I would submit and fall without being able to run more, to ride and gallop. Overachiever, 800 for the credit score I am so tired of just carrying the weight That makes me so sore.

I cannot wait to fall and die. Shoot me in a head. Or shall I try?

dying, taking the poison of others’ hatred. I’m sick of serving as a fake head. I got hired because I was sick of being who I’m not, taking a good poison to kill everything that doesn’t belong to me, who is not me— cause I am no longer Wander nor wonder How to produce antibodies Do you think it’s funny? Why don’t you try this?

fighting internally all the shadows that would go away with the dawn normally, and all the things that I took upon me like a poison that was poisoning me from the inside, from the outside, making me look like I swallowed the hook like a fish who just eats whatever looks like food thinking that it’s good for her and then—one more— take one last watery breath.

This is your death.

Take the poison! Swallow on three. I want to break free from everything that is poisoning me, thus I’m swallowing this to the last drop— hop, hop— and being absolutely honest, brutally honest in this Forest of naked trees, dark forest when I don’t know when I’m going to meet someone who is gonna shoot— me? Lost, walking on fresh frost and trying not to produce a noise But you walk on a frost, do really have a choice? .

This is where I live to die at some point, And then I resurrect myself and look at the world with eyes of altered color from being reborn, famous and followed, and ask—when will the new poison arrive? Here is my glass of wine. Stand up on the prow I cheers to my new galley There will be new foe-women in to poison, I bet. But not yet, not yet, not yet, not yet, not yet.