No, actually. I'm talking about what happens before the dawn starts to break. How you hang on when you can't see the future, when you don't believe things can ever get better.

Morbid humour, a fear of people going through your things. Sometimes, the sneaking suspicion that you'd be doing them all a favour and they'd throw a party to celebrate is enough to keep a body going.

There's also the conviction that everybody will be better off without you to drag them down with your contagious depression and endless needs and complaining over stuff that you should have been able to cope with. That, since they're essentially healthy people, a couple weeks after the funeral they'll not only be getting on with their lives, the lives will be measurably better because they don't have to cope with You.

When I die, the people in my head die too. I can't drag them down too, their stories untold. They may find me in a hospital bed with tubes some day, still scribbling stuff down.

New poem (sort of second-draft-ish); not as shallow of a topic as it seems, really:

'Do

Rapunzel, Rapunzel
cut off your hair...

Just a whim, really,
that led to this

transformation.

And now I look like a me
who isn't me.

This short and
sleek doesn't match

the me inside.

Samson was on
to something.

Pretty doesn't matter when
I can't find me.

           (reflections aren't real)

           (but they are)

Unless this me is a
me who had been waiting,

wanting to come
down from her tower

and out to play.

(I think you'd want something like

<i>
&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; Samson was on<BR>
&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; to something.<BR></i>

-- coming out to

            Samson was on
            to something.

)

Yay! Thank you, Lizard!

Of course, now that I've edited, your post is going to look crazy.

Dude, do you read me? I ALWAYS look crazy.

Steph I love it!

Thank, askye!

Interesting, Steph. I like it.