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My mind died yesterday.
It was a slow death.
First it’d just go missing from time to time.
Little pieces fell off and I tried glue and tape and sutures and sometimes I’d try to just smash them back together like hardened clay.

I’d crumble more and more until I’d just give up and leave the lost pieces to soak up the dirt in some memory of a place I’d never see again.
Sometimes, though, sometimes I’d just grab hold of it and throw it just to see how far it would reach before it hit the asphalt and crack apart like an old tree in a heavy wind.
And sometimes I’d squeeze it until it popped, grabbing onto to bits of air and stretching rubber ribbons around it
If I could only stick enough back in to make it float.
Sometimes I would kick it after it took a shit on the carpet.
Because the only way I knew to love it was to show it how much bigger I was.
Sometimes I’d try to just hold it but it kept squirming so I’d hold it a little tighter.
Just enough to keep it still in my hand.
And then I’d get distracted until it suffocated.
I’d try to revive it but I knew there was no chance
So I'd bury it but I’d dig a tiny hole and throw down a thread tied to a bell
I couldn't let it stink up the place but if it woke up I'd want to know so I could dig it out
And I'd listen for that bell to ring, and jump from my seat every time the wind teased it.
I'd ask myself if I should dig it up just to make sure
But I never did.
Sometimes I'd toss it like a speed ball at an empty plate.
Thinking I’ve got to make it strong enough so never again would I have to feel it break.
Or at least numb enough I'd never know the difference.
But eventually I realized it’s probably better off dead.
I didn’t want to see it go but I spent so much time writing the epitaph and more than that I just didn’t want to see it suffer anymore.
Like an insect that circled the fire until its wings burned off, leaving it to writhe upon the ground and try to walk it off but all the onlookers would say you shouldn't let it suffer anymore.
We excused our blood lust for pity though deep down we just wanted to hear that sweet sound when it crunches and we know it was us that did it.
After all death must be better than to leave it drowning in a pit until its lungs were full of mud.
I’d steal hope away from every possible mistake though I swear I’d never let it die in me.
My mind died a slow death like that.
Everyone wanted to end its misery but I said its better it die slow and painfully than to steal away it's chance.
I said feel free to try and kill it but hope twitches hours after it's dead