My plan B is sitting on the roadside with matted hair and stained cheeks. Painting scenes of happy people with crooked nails and charcoal smeared fingertips. The only warmth in my world would be the threadbare coat over frail, broken shoulders and the jingle of change in a rusted can. The coat wouldn’t keep out the frigid cold of winter, but maybe the frozen wasteland that is the faceless people brisking past. The twinkling of lights in skyscrapers would replacing the shining of silver stars against ink sky. Music would be the voices and cacophony of footsteps of oblivious passersby. Although, this plan brings my heart more elation and relief than it probably should. The world of the living never seemed to be my place, because I have always been more than content to exist. My existence would be documented by tired eyes scrutinizing my dirt-painted face, trying to guess what poison I had chosen. The rejection from the world of the living would be sweet, back-breaking weight rolling off my shoulders and onto those of another. Visions of false perfection and calm would dissolve and reveal what is a harsh reality. That harshness, that realism is my one and only addiction, therefore when everything goes wrong, I will finally give in, and accept my one and only poison.