/lit/ - Literature

I’m done with being human
I’m tired of this Earth
Of all the misfortunes I’ve so far endured
The worst of them all was my birth

Who is that man in the mirror?
I don’t recognize his face
How did I get here from where I once was?
I don’t recognize this place

Everything is broken glass
In the reflections, I glimpse better times
Each little shard has a memory trapped
Within geometric confines

Try as I might, I cannot unbreak it
I bloody myself in the attempt
Perhaps it was never unbroken?
Then brokenness was the intent.

The fact is, life was never good
Happy memories are a lie
We’re here to hurt ourselves and each other
Until, at last, we die