Long Strings; Short Sighted

I died. Just for a second and then I shoved my eyes back into my face and began that same debate with truth all over again. Pepper spray in one hand. A valentine in the other. Neutered thoughts having sex anyway. It's just a habit. This obsession with emotion.

It's true because I see it there. Can pick it up. Fondle the remains. Or is that why it's not?

Holding on so tightly to the broken ladders. Falling up in loud comas of self-destruction. I died. Just for a little while and then I finally gave up on both of them. The living and the dying. The curtain over the window that makes everything seem so far away. Or maybe it actually is. That far. And I'm scared being this close to it.