Wither

Swallowed up in the dark in a corner decorated with herbs and rotten branches and dissected lean of the dead sun, my body lies, writing down our wounds, our dreams, our secrets. My skin burns and my heart freezes up. Barefoot, with legs filled with stripes, I crawl on the sand looking for a crisp alternative to the rope around my neck. Am I so weak and wretched, so miserable and defeatist, so stupid? I broke the mirror. There is no longer reflection. I've killed myself long time ago.