The End of November

Its been 17 days now,
yes, I've kept count.
My brain is still thick,
my heart pulled by the roots.
Screaming red pangs from the blade,
the cool calming fire of a cigarette.
They're all that break the numbness.
I'm alive, I'm sure now.
The darkness comes & I regress
to a place noone my age should go.
Rolled into a ball,
crying like a starving baby.
She's too far away for me to hold.
She doesn't want to hold me anyway.
If Hell is worse than this,
I must not die today
because I don't like my chances.