I died and will die for as long as I live

I try reasoning a lot with myself, its almost like my memories are dug up dreams deep from my subconscious, telling me “its not worth it” “stay” “Please don’t remember”
But;
I float to the surface in this universe, and in the next I don’t. What remains the same is the fact that my self-restraint has dwindled down to nothing in my palms. Schrödinger seems the only thing keeping me sane in the dredges of these weary nights. Perhaps I’m just stuck in a box, both alive and dead.

June. June was a whirlwind of all that’s bad. Sleep. Wake up. Try not to die. Rinse, repeat. On the last day of January my hands gripped my throat and I felt less alive than I did yesterday.

Maybe in one universe, she doesn’t scream as much and stitch my skin inside out till I bleed all over the floor ; maybe my heart isn’t just a hole in my chest. July is here and August is waiting for me with clawed hands, and I’m running out of time to live. I’m inside out and yearning for a touch that doesn’t exist for people like me.

Now I’ll put the blanket over my head and try to die, because it's July and July brings the heat of a thousand suns with it. And maybe tomorrow I can pout salt over my wounds to feel human again.