Alive is Not My Concern

My fingers are clawing at my scalp to relieve my hair of its duty.
My hair is stringing down my head, interlaced in between my index and middle finger.
My tears are flooding over my bag-covered under eyes.
My tear ducts are becoming exhausted by the second as the push the emotion out of me.
My chest is convulsing every second while my lungs attempt to take in any oxygen it can find.
My mouth is opened wide with teeth clenched as tight as my fist that is aimed at the wall.
My heart aches through my ribcage and rattles me with every beat in efforts to keep me alive.
 
But alive is not my concern. 

My nails quickly pounce to the keyboard and type the words of what will be remembered.
My mind fights the urge to need oxygen and attempts to lay flat with my eyes bulged open.
My eyes only close when a riptide escapes from my eyelids, betraying my trust.
My shoulders become tense at the shakiness of my body, alarmed.
My lungs work twice as hard as they should.
My mind runs twice the speed it should. 
My heart is on the verge of failure and giving up. 

Because alive is not my concern.