Faint whispers in the day and dark.
Smiles fade into clever camouflage as the truth builds walls miles high.
Mirror tells lies, and truths I can't stand to observe.
Body rejects sustinace; swipe left, try again tomorrow.
Mind glossed in walls that reverberate, ever growing louder.
Skin crawls like a million earthworms worms dreaming of becoming butterflies.
Decaying in plain site, hidden behind a thousand "okays" and "alrights."
Verbatim honesty escapes my tounge.
Soul ever inching toward the light.

Full freefall into bed.
Notice every lumpy detail;
every crumb not swept away.
Head pounds like a drumline.
Aches woven in every muscle fiber.
Hot and cold flashes rotating through time.
Dry sweat soaks my skin.
Seconds masquerading as hours.
Thoughts scratching the chords, choking to death.

This illness encompasses me.
A ghost of the mind, haunting my existence.
Even in the brightest moments it finds the instant out.
Laying in the deep, old fashioned tub, relaxing as the ghost whispers.
Of the romanticism of tubs like this and early exists.
In these moments I laugh to myself: "of course you'd think that."
Corruption of the spirit.
Errors of the mind.
I wish heights were just terrifying and not lethargic calls to actions.
Unprompted these thoughts corrode my soul like battery acid.

Being empathic is like having a noose around your neck.
Yet never knowing when someone will decide to drop the floor.
Leaving you hanging.

Were I a Starfleet Captain I would be unfit for duty, but this is no Federation of Planets.
This is a moment in time and barely anything at all, yet it is everything.
Carrying a weight on my back of a small crew, I lack the mental fortitude to take care of their carrier.
The cacophonous cocktail stirring within my ribs is barely tolerable.
In fact, It is not tolerable.
Adorned in a gown of ripped tissues,
the waves come like tsunamis.
Somehow throughout my turmoil I have to remain focused and continue forward.
Every step is heavier than the last and I often am unsure how I will see the sun set.
If I'll make it there alive or as some hollow shell with a faux optimism.

Overwhelmed is a term tossed around to the point of underwelming.
I am a depressed person in a glass cage, with no way to hide my fear.
Like a million little cuts across my body, and not a **** one distracts me from myself.
I feel like I'm pounding on the glass screaming, "I wish you would just be happy!"

I'm a depressed person wanting telling a depressed person the worst things to say to depressed people.
The irony is a silent needle that sews the lips shut.
Pretend you're alseep while pretending to be alive.
I sacrifice myself for others worthy of the life.
Exhausting to carry their burdens, and the tears they can't actually cry.
Faces rest in palms as if hands are any sort of shelter.
Inability to let things go makes me feel like I have to rip them apart.
Living like this makes you ill beyond belief.
All I want is a good night's sleep.

Eye lashes brase my brow with a flash of awareness.
Of gravity, of heart rate, with fading memories of mental images and sinking in reality.  
Argument insues among the self
"why do I have to get up?"
"I don't know the ******* answer, just get up."
It goes on repeat.
Get up, get up, get up.
Frozen in the warm sheets and safe feeling that just barely lets the pressure fade.
"Why can't I stay in the twilight of REM and awake where my body is light doesn't hurt and my mind has solace?"
"I don't know, just get up."
Get up, get up, get up.
This feeling has lost me GPA points
and this feeling has cost me jobs.
Place my hands on my chest and streach out my legs.
Rip away from the fetal position and complement myself relentlessly.
Get up, get up, get up.
"You're okay" I wisper as though the echo will ensure it's truth.  
Deep breathing to irratic breathing to controled breathing.
Rise, wash, repeat.
Get up, get up, GET UP.
Rip the sheets off like a bandaid and immediately stand.
Run to the warm shower.
Pretend it's rain and back to deep breathing.
Complement what a great job I'm doing, getting out of bed, not even crying.
How proud I should be I'm taking care of myself - by taking a shower.
A basic Target pattern, fortress of solitude.
Consumed in the hot artificial rain drops I find another fleeting moment of solace.
Deep breathing, "you're okay."
Let the water run over my shoulders until it turns cold.
Dry off in the shower, take advantage of the ignored greenhouse gas - bask in the humidity.
Look into my dark eyes in the mirror, and ask questions. And hope they are good that day.