I am tired.

It is not the lethargy that I can feel in my bones,
shackling up my muscles and slowing the pounding of my heart.
Neither is it the weariness that clings on to my mind,
whispering wicked thoughts and uncovering the darkest recesses of the soul. 

I am tired of wondering if this is my fate, 
if this life is mine, 
if it would have been easier if someone else stood in my place.

My demons come to haunt me, 
and they do not care for light or dark. 
It is a seduction,
but one that is rehearsed like a dance.
Except this time,
instead of turning away and hoping for a miracle,
I may just take their hand and follow their feet.

I find myself treading a fine line
between sanity and delirium.
But my skin is thick and strong
that no one may see the crumbling chaos that lies behind it,
and my smile is wide and blinding
that no one may bother to question why it is tearing
and bleeding at the edges.

I think about the view 
from the highest floor of the apartment building.
The deathless bustling of cars 
and the spectrum of lights.
I wonder if that was a view enough to satisfy 
and soothe my soul as I plunged down. 
I was never afraid of heights anyways.

I am tired of my own weaknesses. 
I am tired of carrying them, 
an Atlas with the world on my shoulders. 
I am tired of tears,
because even the greatest of seas disappear in fire. 
I am tired of my heart
which beats for a soul caged in a dead body.

I am tired.

 — n. u