overwhelmed

overwhelmed by loneliness,
i overdosed on humanity:
it’s easier without it,
easier to live dead
than try to be alive.
Did you see where I put my concern?
that’s all that’s left now;
the slow rotting of acceptance
the way each death accepts itself
once its concern has been lost
to the awkward atrocities
of selfish desire.
The lamps are too soft to see it anymore.
is it the closeness that revolts,
or exclusion and the separateness
that comes from the suffocating darkness,
waiting for the return
with a sense of spinning desperation
that chokes and stabs
until being hungry feels better?
If I said I needed it, would you stop to help?