Death In A Can

Sitting in front of me, death in a can. I can have the can. I do not even have to pay for it. I can pick it up, turn it over, throw it on the ground, do anything I want to try and get it open, get to the contents, except for use the can opener.

I have owned the can since my birth, and it is pretty dented in my attempts to get at it, but I have never managed to break the seal. I am not sure who has the opener or how to get it, so I just keep hurting myself in an effort to end it all. Confusion, conflict, agony in my mind. Everyone else ignores my dents, acts as if I am perfectly fine, but I am crumpled on one side and feel completely hideous. My can misses its label and on some days I fear that someone might open the can for me, others I wish that someone would.

I love, yet I yearn for death.

Mark this, I put my can back on the shelf for another time, but I will get it open, I just need to find that opener.