Stressed

Tempting, very temping.
I could run and keep running. Through rain, snow, scorching heat I'll keep running. Maybe my sneakers will wear out and I'll be running in bare feet. Maybe I'll step on a piece of glass and keep slamming it down on the pavement, pushing it further into the leathery flesh of my soul. It might leave a bloody footprint, a red trail. Maybe I'll eventually bleed out, lose too much blood, slowly lose my colour, lose my breath. That's when I'll stop.
I could stay in bed, my warm, soft bed. Maybe I'll lock the door and let nobody in or out. I'll stay in the dark, in my bed. Maybe I won't eat anything and slowly watch m face become hollow, my cheek bones protrude from under my dark purple eyes. Maybe I'll lay there until I lose all muscle mass and not be able to get up, even if I wanted to. It's too late. I'll keep breathing shallow and slowly...slower. That's when I'll stop.
I could go swimming, in the ocean. Maybe I'll try and get to Britain, keep kicking. Maybe I'll get tired and slow down but I'll keep wading. Maybe I'll hit a storm and the angry waves will grow higher around me, dunking me under before I can catch a breath. Maybe the bitch will swallow me up and even if the she calms, maybe I'll be so drained of strength I'll slowly sink to the bottom. Breathing water and forgotten. That's when I'll stop.
I could keep writing. Ignore it all. The eyes, the people, the work, the hospital, the marks, the alarm. Maybe I'll keep writing and get it all out, screaming. Maybe the paper will be gray and smudged. Maybe my hand will cramp and my arm will burn. Maybe I'll finally cry. Maybe I'll kill the Nazi, the Hitler. Maybe after seeing she'll drink the poison. Maybe I'll stab my jugular with a sharp pencil and the lead will run through my viens. Maybe my blood will spew from my neck until there's nothing left. Maybe it'll fill my lungs and over flow into my mouth. Maybe it'll taste salty. That's when I'll stop.
Tempting, very tempting.