"hey, um... are you OK?"
my world snaps back into focus,
a startled glance over my shoulder,
I knuckle my eyes, already red and puffy
"you don't look so good..."
my mouth is sticky at the corners,
my throat is unbelievably dry,
I can't breathe,
let alone speak...
"I'm so tired, so ******* tired of living. I'm sorry that I'm such a mess, but my world just seems to be spinning out of control - I've not been getting much sleep lately,
but y'know, it's kinda hard to sleep when your heart is at war with your own twisted mind.
It's hard to breathe when your breath is constantly being stolen by the storm in your head, and I'm so ******* tired of feeling like I'm not good enough.
But hey, y'know what? - it's better than telling myself that I don't need anyone, then realising that they don't need me.
It's a sick world we live in where I'm made to feel like I don't deserve love because I'm not a stereo typical person who likes stereo typical things. and I'm sorry that I'm not good enough for society's standards, but there's no need to make my life a living hell because of it.
So no, I'm not *'OK', but thanks for asking anyway."
but never mind,
I know that you wouldn't understand,
And I know that I've been quiet too long - you're looking restless.
I don't *want to,
but I have to say something,
because you took that choice away from me when you decided to be "kind"
"sorry,"
I whisper, my voice barely audible above my breath
I don't know why I am apologising
*"I'm fine..."

When you feel your gut twist in a painful symphony of sadness, and your throat feels so dry that it hurts, and your eyes burn in unenviable disgust of your emotional fragility, and your vision is clouded where your body threatens to expose your inevitable failure to everyone that holds some kind of misguided regard to you as a friend. When you feel your face twisting in the agony of finally acknowledging defeat, but you hear the familiar greeting of a helpful passer-by and you tell your body that you're okay and that it needs to get it's **** together and to actually do something useful for once.
You still burn inside, that writhing fever tormenting your torso. You know that you're red in the face with restraint and your fists are balled with outrageous embarrassment - but you have no tears...
where did they go?
Are they still lurking in the corner of your eyes, waiting for you to mess up again - to let down your guard again - and ambush your heart, already preparing to wreck your body with sobs. Are they waiting for your darkest day to pounce, washing your mind with sadness and forcing you to your knees, weak, cowardly, begging for the forgiveness of whatever sin has caused this living hell. Or, are they going to attack softly, silently, seeping through your skin like death coloured mist in the nightmarish agony of what society calls despair.