Suicide

(This entire prose is a metaphor, it does not mean to represent an actual intention of suicide.)

This is me, who fathomed life as pitifully beautiful.
I have brought upon myself, a life of two bends.
I will have thought about the consequences;
of a darkened shallow life,
as life itself is rather interesting;
I understand that.
A life of meaningless decisions and hopeless interventions;
a life of shivering whispers and moping transitions;
there are only two.
I repent;
I only have one life.

As a core of me weakened when I died,
not fully destroyed but merely weakened, as I said;
for you will never believe life after death,
not in a different body, but the same physicality.
Not that I could never convince myself,
but that part of myself served us lies,
for death itself could never comprehend itself;
it could have wished for death upon itself.

For my conscience killed me until I died;
again, you will never believe my words.
I will repeat,
conscience killed me until I died.
This is similar to a parasite,
killing me repeatedly, even after I'm dead,
until I lose every ounce of will to live,
and that's when I truly died.

Life and death is like a game;
I always win,
and my reward will always be death.
Repetitive.