I am but the skeletal remains of the memory of a skeleton. An outcrop of peeling fiberboard, a slightly unglued laminate. Wincing from each tremor my frame barely withstands it. I play pretend that I'm a solipsist. If only I exist I won't have to face that there's sharp things around me. It's frightening that such a fragile thing directs this solid body.
If self-awareness didn't kill this thing,
If medication didn't kill this thing,
If psychotherapy didn't kill this thing,
Then I guess that it's a waiting game.
We'll see who dies first.