Suicide is the word.

It is the haven.

It is heaven.

I don’t wish to see an afterlife.

I wish to see the past.

But looking down at the void, I know I can’t avoid.

It is home and comfort.

Unlike all my despair, depression, fear, anxiety, and every other decaying and aging feeling.

This world burning and burning,

Insects and animals dying and dying,

Rotting,

Burning,

Dying,

Killing.

We are the plague.

Humanity made art, humanity was art.

It is our time to leave.

For the only art now is money and making more and more and more until we drop dead or the planet drops dead.

Death calls to me, a beacon of escape.

This burning planet,

These leaving insects,

This slimming chance of change,

The cries of animals and all.

This world requires a sacrifice,

and it will be my extinction,

And before long,

It will be everything else’s.