The Good People

They work as clerks. They work in banks.

Clean hands. Clear routines.

I’m afraid — if I ever do the same, one morning…

I’ll wake up and find I’ve become a cockroach.

Not with a story. Not with name.

Just silence. Just skin.

A shadow in the corner of a room

that no one sees — but knows is there.

They go to cafes — drink a few pints,

come home with easy breaths.

Smiles like receipts. Lives like routines. 

I go to dive bars —

where the light’s too sharp,

the music too loud,

and the walls remember every lie I’ve told.

I went to the worst bars, trying to get myself killed —

not in pain, not in war,

not even with a name —

just…

to stop being this.

The Suicide Kid didn’t want a funeral.

He just wanted to be seen.

But I don’t even want that.

I just want to stop being this.

Good people live a straight line:

cradle → altar → grave.

No turns. No spirals.

No “almost.” 

I count 1, 2, 3, 5, 8, 13 —

numbers that don’t fit the world.

I move in circles, in loops, in silence,

like a clock with no hands.

I never learned to love life by a spoonful a day.

Never learned to half-love. Never half-live.

You can’t be half a man and breathe half-sighs.

You either break — or don’t begin.

Even when it means blood. Even when it means tears.

Even when it means losing everything.

Still, I never learned how to be one of them.

The Good people 

They’re good.

I’m not.

That’s why I’m alive.