What I wrote when I died

I wrote this when the trigger was pulled, at a bomb, no less. A time bomb, ticking away, counting the seconds, each digit evolving into the next:

I would cry if I could, but crying is a sign of weakness. I will be labelled a crybaby. I will not be taken seriously. I will cry and weep and wail.

I am a mess of hair and tears and mucus and saliva. A tangle of words soaked in misery. Question: What do you get when you cross helplessness, frustration and devastation? Answer: A lethal spitball from society's upperhand. I can't tell anything except that nobody cares. If I value my existance and future, I keep my mouth shut and disregard my feelings.

Wait. What are feelings? They will send my heartbeat to my ears thump out an unsteady rhythm rattle like a hot kettle explode into a loud whistle something that will make my mouth dry smack as my lips try mold to around non-existent words to explain, to defend, to save what very little faith I have in life.

So I keep quiet. I let my blood simmer. They seem to enjoy this show of my veins surging with fury. They enjoy watching my plasma boil and rise, taking impurities and waste away. They enjoy watching my red blood cells disappear, taking my life support away. They enjoy watching, those sick bastards enjoy watching my white blood cells shrivel up and die, leaving me weak and unable to fight.

So I don't.