I feel heavy in my chest--
an anxious weight of the knowledge that it's about to be bad again;
I can feel it getting bad again

and the trigger might have been you or it could have been this impending sense of  doom I cannot seem to shake--
but it's going to be bad again

I can almost grab it--
fingers desperately trying to pull a dumbell off my lungs
my arms are too weak
and the bell is too slick
and I can't seem to grasp it quite yet but it's there;
sitting,
heavy,
holding me down while the sword of damocles is hanging above my throat--
I can see it's getting bad again

but I cannot move,
and the sun is setting quick--
the darkness almost comforting as a distraction from the cool steel of the blade taunting me--
I cannot seem to watch as the sword begins to drop

it's getting bad again,
I can feel it--
see it in the ways the world's colors tinge a subtle sepia,
hear it in the ways my favorite songs don't sound as they should,
taste it in how foods are turning repulsive to my mouth--nauseous and burning,
smell it in the smoke I use to drown out the constant ringing of alarm bells,

trust me when I say:
I'm not prepared for the worst--and well,
it's getting bad again

I've been letting these feelings of complacency linger for awhile now
avoiding the process of acknowledgement like it's an overused hobby in my freetime

and it's rare for me to act--
instead I diminish and allow myself to curl in on myself
rather than facing head-on the things I fear

I am weak like that--
weathered down by time like a stone in a creekbed until my sharp edges are smooth--
only good for skidding above the water and sinking down below--
my obtrusive nature nonexistent,
only useful to those searching for me

but I've been sitting here complacent--
letting the rushing of the currents wear me down,
and I find I am tired of it's constant freezing presence
sitting beneath the crystal waters--visible to those searching for my stone,
waiting for the helpful hand of someone brave enough to seek me out
waiting to fit perfectly in the palm of their hand

and maybe I'll find that I've found purpose again.

Not so much rare as spontaneous
a tightness of the chest
a heating of the face
a trickle from my eye
      I have never done well with criticism

but it demands my attention,
however ignored it may be
cold shoulders throw a lot of heat when aimed correctly

listening to silence can be disturbingly loud
you may call me a sensitive soul,
but it's been a while since I've felt so outcasted
    I retreat into myself

inside, I can scream and I can cry
throw a tantrum like the child you make me out to be
sometimes,
I can feel it leak

there's a dam that's been carefully crafted
years of maintenance tirelessly scheduled
--day in--day out--
but recently it's been cracking;
maintenance lacking with the feeling of safety

I think I need to patch it
because of you

Ink to paper:
a simple thing to most,
but I struggle with more than that most days
I sit in a constant battle of wills
both of which are my own
conflicting and demanding my attention
I do not feed it
still I watch it grow--
ever encompassing, abundant
I try to move, but I still sit
stuck to the fabric of my bed sheets
my flesh becoming one with the fibers until I am truly trapped
in this battle of wills,
I do my best not to become complacent as complacency always leads to depression
and while we have been much more than strong acquaintances,
neither friend nor enemy quite seem to fit

It's difficult to describe the emotions tandem with its presence--
upsetting to say the least--
but anger and fear come close

Still, I try to leave the tangle of my bed sheets,
fibers pulling at my skin,
ink willing my hand to write, my mind to steady, and my feet to move.

It was fine at first--
unnoticeable, or rather better hidden
but it became something deliberate and somewhat cold
a curling ball of something akin to shame tucked beneath my rib cage
I find I do not pity you

as days turned to weeks turned to months of petty not-words
passive aggressive shoulder keeping me at a distance
friendship unneeded and clearly not wanted

I owe to you the tenseness of my shoulders
the quieting of my voice,
the diminishment of my presence

and I thought; or more so rather hoped, that my talking to you would have changed things for the better
instead, I find us back where we started--strangers with no intent of being more than

I work with you when scheduled,
but your name brings a foul taste to my mouth--
it hurts to know I am the odd one out
square one
like a child alone again on the playground

I will sit on the swings
awaiting the push

A part of me feels tilted on an axis
a mobius strips, no end, no beginning,
but twisted all the while
and I try to straighten it--
try to gain some semblance of normalcy
but these feelings come in waves,
abruptly crashing to shore;
always slow to pull back

there's a time and a place for changes,
but I am never prepared for mine--
routine interrupted by chemicals I try desperately to tame

abrupt changes in motion
I drag myself to skid
the ground is hard
it's unwelcoming--cold and damp,
gravel pressing into my back

I feel stupid
humiliated
embarrassed rather than chagrined
and I want to cry like a child who has lost their favorite toy
I am a downfall unto myself

but I cannot scream
and I cannot cry
because doing so would be admitting defeat--
even if it would give me some relief

I feel like I'm in a constant fight to prove myself
where previously I would have been given grace
I find I am given none,
even with it being my name