There are so many things I want to know
And most of the time my unanswerable questions awaken themselves early in the morning
Like a young child vying for attention way past his bed time
Or asking around like he’s gotten lost in Ikea
“Have you seen my mum?”
“Why am I still suicidal?”
“Why doesn’t he love me back?”
“How the **** do you put this chair together?”
It will never be strong enough to hold what’s in my head.
No offence to the shop - it’s not their fault I’m unstable.
I keep wondering whether this is normal,
This constant existential crisis I suffer from
I ask the doctor,
My therapist,
My best friend,
The boy who invites me with a wink to his empty house over facebook,
As if any of them could help me understand why I’m uncomfortable in my own body
As if God made my skin in a size too tight
Less material is cheaper
So why am I still having to pay for anti-depressants
I tend to sway towards the clichés
Picture this
An overcast joyride
Staring out of the window
Glum expression
Absorbed in depression
You’ve got me in the rule of thirds
First: I’m a time bomb of sweet nothings and childhood anecdotes and picture reels of melancholy summers spent in back gardens and dim rooms.
Second: I don’t know whether I’m going to make it out of this. You can have my scraps of journals and make of it what you want. Make a suicide note out of manuals I never threw away.
Third: I’m a teenage tragedy,
Drowning in questions that even the sea cannot answer anymore.