23 [end of a life.]

I'm thinking about
giving up.
Every day, a loop,
every hour a year.
Does it really matter if I'm here?
Scars on my thighs remind me,
Of what I truly am.
Claw marks of a dead women,
Where I used to be.
Smoke bellows,
from my veins
To kiss the ceiling softly.
Would you miss me?
I'm dirty.
No matter how hard I scrub,
this layer of filth never ceases
But I chose this for myself.
I wish
I was pure.
I wish,
there was cure.
Can you hear my eyes pulsing?
Can you see my disgusting mind?
I wake up alive again.
To look at my decomposing corpse
in the mirror.
They will never find my body.
Because I was never here.
I was always
A rotting wolf, wanting to see clearer,