the illicit affair

severe elevation | high elevation | moderate elevation | slight elevation | stable | slight depression | moderate depression | deep depression | severe depression || anx: 1, agit: 1


Life is simply on maintenance mode these days. I have no desire to improve, no desire to strive or survive.

I've begun another illicit affair with Suicide - part 1,896 of my on-again-off-again romance with my heavy-handed lover. It's nothing serious yet - I mean, not this time. At least it isn't anything I can't slip away from. Just a bit of flirting here and there, obsessing in and out, escaping into his arms after midnight when my corner of the world slumbers and I have no one else to talk to.

It's nonetheless dangerous.

I wrote a poem entitled Dear Suicide some time ago, in which I personified him - er, it - as my unwanted but very welcome paramour, steamy words and authentic death wish very much included. It gave me goosebumps as i wrote and read it - the kind that feels like you are being watched by something evil and invisible, probably the way horror flick heroines feel just before they get an appendage lopped off. It felt seriously twisted thus I had second thoughts about posting it in my Humble Voice Gallery. And then, much to my regret, I lost it.

But I'm thinking of rewriting it. A more intense version this time. If I can.