Tending the Extreme

Sitting in the car, in the dead of night,
gripping the wheel, knuckles turning white.
The engine hums, a lullaby of despair—
deciding to do it, to vanish into thin air.
So what the hell, I tell myself,
this is the edge, no one else.

Let the red run, let it flow—
a river of sorrow where only I know.
Down it goes, warm against the skin,
tickling my fingers, wrecking what's within.
The soul splinters, cracks, and screams,
a breaking point where nothing redeems.

But it’s not quick enough, not sharp enough,
the agony lingers, the pain still tough.
So I pull out the big guns, no time to stall,
where to place the bullet? Let it end it all.
Behind the temple, cold metal pressed,
a breath, a moment, the ultimate test.

A flash of thoughts, a flood of fear—
but also a strange, twisted clarity here.
In this instant of torment, a peculiar peace,
the thought that finally it all will cease.
But it’s not just the end I seek,
it’s a sick desire to be seen, to speak.

A moment of glory, a headline’s roar—
"Local boy found, couldn’t take anymore."
The world will know, they’ll see my name,
even if it's only through this bloody game.
In my hometown, where no one knew,
perhaps they'll wonder what I went through.

But here I sit, on the precipice tight,
clinging to shadows in the absence of light.
What am I chasing? A fleeting fame,
a desperate grasp at a forgotten name.
The barrel’s cold kiss whispers me near—
but what’s beyond it? Silence or fear?

In the darkness, a question remains:
is this the end, or just another chain?
For even in the bleakest night,
there’s a flicker, a ghost of light.
And maybe—just maybe—it’s not too late
to pry open the bars of this self-made fate.