My Fist, Your Face

How tired are you now?
Can you feel it burning?
You would have thought by now I would have ended my life long ago.
For what it's worth, it's really not.
For what it's worth, you're already dead.
You know it and you love it. Raptures and explosions. Movements slowing into still life.

That vacant look in your eye.
I've seen it before in a mirror cracked by anger.
What stands frozen before me I once saw in myself.
And the image broke by my hands calloused and bruised.
Shards of a reflection of self abuse enbedded in the knuckles of an overanalyzed dream.

I no longer sleep to keep from waking up.
I've come to the realization that no matter how hard I try, I'm only dying.
You're only dying.
You are dying.
You, you're waking up to do this all over again