I am flesh and bones and blood and muscles and organs. I am scars and tattoos and piercings and make-up and hair dye and scabs and skin. I am pain and anger and love and trust and misery and honesty and fear. I am fire and edges and thunderstorms and whispers and bite-marks and lust and the second the shutter snaps down. I am tired and energised and head and heart and old and new and life and death. 
I am able to carry the world on my shoulders but even a leaf could crush me where I stand.

Almost.

I feel like it's almost the end. I feel the last threads of myself hanging onto my soul but soon they will blow away with the wind, never to be seen again. I feel a presence, like a black shadow, hanging over my shoulder, watching, waiting. I think it is death.

When I shut the door to you this morning, it felt almost like goodbye: I feel as if I am going somewhere that you cannot follow. My soul is stripped of everything that it used to be. It is nearly raw and blank and untouched; my presence barely lingers on in it any more. I am not here, I am somewhere else. My insides are frozen, my eyes made of glass, and my tears are nothing more than a brief memory passing through me, and on, and out. I do not feel enough to keep you hoping, wishing, dreaming of a past that is hardly even a whisper. I cannot be enough to let you stay. When the last remnants of myself are gone, I will let you go. I myself will then fade into nothingness, and soon after, that presence that I feel; that darkness gathering behind me, will step forward and take me away from this ghostly, grey existence.

I don't know how soon it is coming, but I can scarcely feel myself here. My mind is misty and I don't really see things, they just pass me by, mostly unnoticed. I don't want company. I am alone, and even myself has left me. I have no interests, except a faint enjoyment of photography – some stronger part of my personality clinging on – and every day is made up of time: of counting down hours, of minutes going past, every second of my inconsequential existence wasted.

I should not be here.

Untitled.

I had a dream last night;

a dream that I found a book.
Inside that book were,
more or less,
the words;
I saw the wires to the bridge snap,
and it plunged into the water below.
On that bridge were walking two lovers,
and they plunged into the water too.
They tried to reach each other,
but the current pulled them apart.
She died.