I am me. 

At the core of my goo.

I am the spark,

the electricity,

the action

the character that shows 

by what I do

and I am not satisfied with me.

I have long wanted to kill myself.

I managed to mostly get over that;

I continue on and talk to my head,

not as a rival or a hated adversary,

but as a lonely and rejected friend.

It is one that I’ve abused, 

for so long

that I almost don’t know how

to not.

So I decide that I will show action. 

I will do the things I need to do.

I will take care of myself.

Because the truth is that I will be 

alone with this self for the 

rest of my existence and a 

contented sort of banter is a 

much better way to 

handle my suicidal thoughts 

than a bottle of pills.

So now when a 

perfectly justified

self criticism 

comes up, and 

that part of me 

slithers,

oily, 

out of my gut 

and whispers 

that I should die, 

I can confidently say back 

“I don’t think they 

currently suggest 

the death penalty 

for stains.”