Artist

My mouth wide open, I taste steel and heat. Tears stream down my face and I remember what it used to be like, before I learned it could get better. Content to live in mediocrity and without a purpose, always striving just to be happy, always happy. Now I've lost it, she tells me I'm too optimistic, I see too much beauty in the bleak. Soon I'll see nothing, and I'll have done it just to prove myself right, to who? I don't know. My old self, I guess.

No note, not for this. This is no noble act, there is no greater good or acheivement here, the passion in this act has long since been forgotten, this would be an act of convenience. An act of rage, an act of rest.

Fingers slip clumbsily off the trigger and my body begs me not to send it away. But I've no use for it anymore, no use for flesh and warm sacks of pulsing organs, I'm tired, and their noise is keeping me awake.

I force my hands around the machine, fill my eyes up with the last tears I'll ever need, and I pull.

My art here is done. I leave behind one last brushstroke, no more important than the rest,I spatter colour against the wall.