Amy Winehouse’s Suicide Note
Honestly, I couldn’t bring myself to post this any other time but after hearing about Whitney, I figured that since R.I.P. most people cant even fathom what its like to be trapped in the spotlight, reading this might help them out.
Death, a shape, a thing. Death, a sound, a movement. Death is black, death is going back to black. They use my face. They use my eyes. They sell my soul. They touch me, they molest me. They tell me to stand, they tell me to sing. They plead with me to become.
They make me filthy, then they say they want to cleanse me. Death, the hour awaits, I have nothing, I am neither human nor a machine, stuck in between. I am neither a thing nor a feeling. I am neither alive nor dead. Death, the voice that sinks, the happiness that lingers in the flesh itself.
Death, they tell me to sing for the people. I say nothing, my words are nothing but futile distraction. I lie to humanity. I am a false icon. I am a disease, they, want me to spread. They want me to distract, they use my suffering as a tool to keep the people watching.
When will she break down? I want to break down. Death, awaits those with nothing left. Death, awaits those who betray their life for the meaningless rewards of the future. I want to die, I will die, moments, appearances, all falsities. They want me to sing and dance, they want me to please when there is only suffering left. They want me to be genuine, when it is all process. Fame, fake happiness, pretend desires. It’s all fake, it’s all dead.
Death, it’s all really dead.
Death, I’ve died a hundred times, so what’s one more.