Slam poem

This was the beginning of the end:

I can't take the bitter happenings, the green mite that destroys my might, my light. 

I deserve nothing, am nothing. 

I am below ground and earth. 

I am ground beneath boots. 

I am the lowest cord, wrapped around the neck and wrists and ankles and waste. 

I am the grinding to a halt. 

I am the grieving. 

I am the nothing that inhabits nothing. 

I am the empty shell of a thought. 

I am the red warmth that eats you. 

I am the spurt of sadness between tears. 

I am rust in a deep well.

I am the mud...under clay.

I am the dark beyond shadows.

I am the dark blue forgotten.

I am the thump of dead lumbering above your head.

I am the ejected vowel.

I am the bloodless cut.

I am the want discarded.

I am the penny face-down.

I am the last sip of cold coffee.

I am the cold flesh of winter.

I am the dry skin of forget.

I am the lone vibration.

I am the joint, bend-less.

I am myself, the worm.

I am the even less of the worm.

I am the remembered accident.

I am the urine spilt.

I am the ink-spot, wet and mopped.

I am the elusive number.

...the pin unstuck...

I am the ball.

I am the sting left behind.

I am the seven-year-old alive.

I am the pink secret.

I am under the dark space.

I flit in the sun in grim, fog.

I am a non-memory.

I am unmissed and dead.

I am the pathetic piece of life without life.

Mostly, I am alone and pricked, raped and forgotten.

I am the unsung note.

I am the unsung note.

I am the unsung note.

I am the unsung note.

I am unsung.

I deserve less than nothing, 

to be beaten and tortured.

I am the sting,

I am the ripping of flesh.

I want the unopened eyes.

I want the bruise,

the cut,

the scrape.