Somebody will pull my rotting body out from the pond, onto the broken wooden dock. They will bury me and they will cry for me. And then they will go home, and then they will die. / I feel nothing in my bones, I see nothing beyond the trees. / I give up. / I wish there was someone to stop me. I wish I had someone to talk to, something to do. I sat in my room and talked to myself. I looked at the world I stand on and I talked to myself. I guess I was curious. I probably didn't know what I was doing. (When I realized, it was too late) I was only sixteen when I ended my life. Only sixteen when I discarded my path to a life of supposed happiness, gave it up to the eternal cosmos. And I hadn't even realised it. Now I see my eyes are open fully, only I can't seem to blink. I can't seem to breathe in and I've forgotten how to run. I must have been lonely. I must still be lonely, my eyes are drying up more than ever before and my lungs have become five times more shallow. My legs won't move. Ever still, ever leaving. I sat in my room and talked to myself. I hadn't realize it yet, but I died. I sad in my room and I killed myself. / I remember New Year's Eve. A glass of non-alcoholic champagne. We had to write our 2025 wishes on a small piece of paper. On 0:00 I take a lighter and my wish catches fire. I throw it in my glass and swallow it. Everyone hugs. We go outside to watch the fireworks. Nothing is different. 1+1=2 and 2024+1=2025. I wrote two options for fate to choose from. "Atrast laimi," the first one felt like an obligation, "vai nomirt." A piece blew away when lighting my paper. I wonder which part it was. I wonder if it was significant. It's all right. I don't believe in fate either way. / Apathy. Loneliness. Depression. You are still a teen. Everyone goes through this. Get over it. Get over yourself. It's just winter sadness again. I know what you're feeling. You must be on your period. Little girl doesn't know what she's talking about. Everyone feels this way, don't think you're worth the effort. Stop being lazy. Stop p r o c r a s t i n a t i n g. Stop making up excuses. / Kurā brīdī jāpienāk manai pašapziņai? Es sēžu savā istabā un laužu savu dzīvi sīkās lauskās ar aizvērtām acīm. Ja tās atskatās pretī, es to nezinu, jo esmu pārāk aizņemta, adot segu, kas man ir par maza, ar izdilušiem diegiem. Nē, es neskatīšos. Es padodos, taču vēl pie krituma neesmu. Man nekad nav bijušas tik lielas bailes kā šīs. Bailes, ka man domātā rītdiena nepienāks. Bailes, ka man tās būs jālabo pašai. Es jau stūrēju uz klints malu ar vieglām izelpām, kad beidzot pa logu beigts putns piespiedīs manu gāzes pedāli? Man ir apnicis karāties pusbeigtai bez izejas, bez nobeiguma. Teikumam laiks pielikt punktu. / Cik trausli ir dzīvot ar domāšanu bez gala. Šķiet, es jau paspēju izdomāt visas sāpes, visus pārdzīvojumus un visus priekus, kas paredzēti vēl četrdesmit gadiem, pa šiem astoņiem mēnešiem vien. Un jēga to visu malt no gala kā nebijušu? Kur ir tas brīdis, tā vieta, kur var atšķirt vārdu savējo no pašradītiem mēsliem, kas iefiltrējušies tam pa vidu? Mani nepievelk vakuums, es to saucu pie sevis. Nodīri man ādu pirms es saprotu, ka tā ir tīra. Nodīri man ādu pirms es saprotu. Nodīri man ādu pirms es saprotu, ka tā ir tīra. / Es gribu rakstīt līdz nāve. Es gribu veidot no gala jaunus skatupunktus, tos izdzīvot un tajos iet bojā. Mana dzīve ir viena, taču punktu ir daudz. Ka nepabeigts teikums jebkurš vārds var būt pēdējais, un es ceru uz to, lai tas būtu šis. Tomēr es paceļu pildspalvu un uzrakstu nākamo, jo iztirzājums ir švaks, un nobeigums ir pusvārds. Ja lasītājs neizprot manu sacīto, tad pēc nobeiguma varēs tikai gudri spriest un tēlot lielu sapratni. Lai viņi interpretē samaltos satura teikumus kā grib, es zinu, ka manas domas nekad vārdos netulkojas. Un noteikti es nekad neuzrakstīšu viņiem nobeigumu, lai kāds labāk justos par savu spriedumu. Lai analizē katru vārdu, katru burtu, jūs tāpat mani nekad neiepazīsiet. / Es vēlos rakstīt, es vēlos zīmēt, es vēlos tikt dzirdēta. Bet tad, kad mani kāds ierauga, es saprotu, ka es esmu salikta no tukšiem pantiem ar piecpadsmit rokrakstiem, jo es nespēju izvēlēties, kurš man tīk labāk. Es vēlos, lai viņi saredz to, kā nemaz nav. / Isn't it funny? I stare in the eyes of the mirror. Isn't it funny? Unmoving. I wish to never wake again. Humorous. Open your eyes, you are no dreamer. / I will write and I will forget. I will write again. / disengaged / Is it real? Is it not? Does it matter? No. It doesn't. All we do is wait. Survival doesn't leve space for dreams, we were all doomed from the start. / "Seize the day," they say, but there is no day to look for. / In my dream you found my poems. You sa my wall and all of the spiders within it. You took a wet cloth and wiped it all off. You ripped off the pictures too. Because it's so much easier to pretend none of it's there than to try and understand. And you hated me for writing the things I did. For feeling the things I did. And you made me promise to never write again. Do you really think it's that simple? Can we all just wipe it away, pretend it was never there? / Give yourself a scar tattoo, it will last forever and make you never forget. And you will forever know the pain you never felt. Shape it into something you'll regret. It's alright, you can't hate your choices more than you hate yourself. / You know the spiders aren't really there. You kno the car stopped at the red light. You know the sirens didn't ever go off. / Make a cup of coffee with honey and cinnamon in the morning. Momentary contentment never last. Maybe it's never real. / With your eyes shut look at the world around you. Spin yourself in circles, search for something unattainable and puke your will out when your feet can't move anymore. / Tear your skin off to find where the signal is coming from. But even as you reach past the bone, you refuse to open your eyes.