you are the end and beginning of everything, did you know that?
shouting and whispering in turn after turn with bullets clenched between your teeth misfiring at will and never knowing how to draw the muzzle back, how to flick the safety on only screaming over and over that
i am here!
so bitter and angry and with frustration crawling up your spine and making your neck crack, weighing down on your back til you can't walk and every step is a defiance of nature you are everything when every morning you perform a feat of necromantic proportions raising the dead with your waking you snap and snarl and spit whenever anyone tells you
you creature made of everything you hate, breathing air back into collapsed lungs and bolstering shattered ribs with spite you cannot quite decide whether you are alive or dead or which you want to be you forget how to breathe between breaths and they call you lazy when you are lifting mountains on your shoulders and working miracles with every step you zombie living dead or dying alive turning every bone shard into a weapon and biting down on every complaint til they all burst out at once you
running on nothing but will you stitch yourself into one thousand and one different forms changing shape like it's the new thing trying so hard to be everything in a body falling apart you add part after part wing and tail and feather but you are rotting from the inside out
if you replace every board of a ship, is it still the same ship?
turning yourself into one thousand and one different things to try to get away from the very fact that
your body is not your own, is it?
what a tragic creature, what a tragic thing, so awful that it can't recognise it's own desperation, yet so self pitying, convincing itself it's still the same after being so little the creature it was before, after ripping itself apart to try and find the answer, it's made of everything but itself, it longs for identity
you snap at everyone who tries to help you, don't you?
poor thing, do you even know how pitiful you've become
yet, yet! you keep fighting, don't you, you vile never-should-have-been thing, dying from the inside out and still so determined. every day is a challenge, every day is a miracle; you wonderous monstrosity, you beautiful freak, rolling down hills instead of walking
and you'll keep going, won't you?
I feel I should note that this is directed towards myself and is an extremely personal experience of CFS/ME (as all are, honestly) that interplays with my own emotional state and therefore is far more, ah, hateful? Rude? -than I would make it were I writing generally, especially as this is about a more general overview of my particular experience in 'I feel like ****' than just cfs; a mixed bag, basically.