Like murder

I see so many things that kill me -

some things that shouldn't but they do.

And if I don't say what they are,

then maybe they will just go away.

But If I give them a voice,

then they become more real.

So I let them eat away at my chest - at my brain.

I let them kill me, over and over and over.

But it's not a real death,

because I haven't given them the one thing that they need.

I haven't given in to them.

I haven't validated them.

I haven't.

I won't.

It's not a real death,

but it burns -

it feels like falling apart,

being torn asunder.

Like murder.