It has long been time to say goodnight,
The hands of the clock caressing my face, lulling me into secluded silence.
But I can still smell your skin on me, feel the bite of the binds.
And so the cigarette still burns. On. And om. And on. And the tears still fall. On. And on. And on.
Agony is telling the same story over and over until you believe it. "I'm fine, I don't think about it anymore. I'm over it."
And then you see something. Or hear something. Or read the ******* newspaper. And your name is never under arrest.
Maybe you never hurt anyone again. Maybe you only took my voice.
Maybe the cigarette still burns so close to my fingers that I have scars. Maybe I still wait for sleep. Maybe you'll catch fire to that bed dropping a cigarette. Maybe the flames will take you.
Maybe I can wait for the next time the pain will hit. Maybe I can smoke another cigarette.
I married the knight
instead of my Prince Charming.
My heart is empty.
There is no way to get rid of your demons besides exorcism.
Mine must be as buff as Marines the way I talk about them,
Exercising, jumping jacks, squats.
Those ******* have been around as long as my gap tooth has been closed.
I have given them pet names. One is "What If," the other "Past." They like to dance merrily on my tongue as I talk to myself wandering around my house.
They like to be written about, self absorbed and aware as they are that they exist.
What If is the one that yells "hey, hey, look over here!" Past is an introvert, hiding shyly among my innermost workings.
Occasionally, like most super buff dudes do, they get drunk and want to play. That's when the danger starts.
What If is a flirter. He really likes to hit it and quit it with my emotions. Past is that sappy guy that sits at the end of the bar and doesn't say a whole lot, but you can tell he just broke up with his girlfriend by the way he sighs into his drink.
These drunk ******* really need to knock their **** off, if only to let me sleep soundly for a single night.
It ***** when you struggle
Because someone always has it worse than you, and you know that
But on your worst days you just want someone to talk to
And everything you have to say falls on deaf ears, or gets one upped by people who have it worse.
I know that I don't have it bad, I know that I am lucky.
But it doesn't mean that my problems are less real. It doesn't mean that I can throw my feelings under the rug.
Tell me how it feels to be second class because your life feels and seems so put together when your glue is melting at the seams
Tell me how to avoid drowning in the deep blue of your feelings that are overtaking your chest
Tell me what happens when your only friends don't have time for you anymore
And your complaints can't fall on the ears of the infant who didn't ask for a mess of a mother
Tell me how to live the way I'm supposed to in my glass house filled with dark corners of hiding away my needs to better serve the needs of others
Tell me how to survive
This is for the people who don't have the suicide hotline number memorized just in case.
For the people who have never cried sitting across from a counselor because their lives are actually perfect.
For the people who have never chainsmoked a pack of cigarettes while their brain flirts with the danger of "what if..."
Whose hands don't shake uncontrollably with the memories of what used to be.
This is for the people who haven't drank an entire bottle just for the peace of sleep
The people who haven't wondered if waking up isn't the scariest part of their day
This is for the people who weren't diagnosed with PTSD, Anxiety, and Depression all in a spin of words.
The people who don't have to hold themselves together with fake promises that survival is only half the battle.
To the people who have never met the call of a razor blade with the skin of their bodies.
This is for the people who say that mental illness is just whining.
Do you realize just how lucky you actually are?
In between drags from a cigarette I can barely taste around the metallic punch of anger, I glare at you.
This fight, that fight, words we don't really mean thrown into the pile with other words like "blame," and "fault" and "whatever." Repetitive jabs meant to engulf and inflame sore scorch marks from past spats.
Between me and you is this smoke, fanned across my line of sight in a way that almost blurs you. Sometimes I wish I could blur you, sand down your harsh edges and pull you back into this calm reality in which I live.
But drag after drag, night after night, the same old fights and the same old cigarettes,
I guess it's the only reality I've ever known.