I'm so lost.
My surroundings don't feel real and
I'm so scared.
The skin on my fingertips is sliced
in patterns created by anxiety fuelled
compulsivity whilst I'm sat around an unfamiliar kitchen table.
I'm so lonely.
Interaction is only manageable after the sour taste
of vodka shots have seeped into my blood stream and
I'm so sad.
Do they know where I disappear off to?
Do they realise that I leave the room, unable to cope,
just to slash at my thighs in a desperate attempt to feel grounded?
I'm so sore.
My body is bruised, tiny constellations that
only remind me of home, of my mother and her hobbies.
Of skies no longer tinged with the bitter sweet brassiness of city lights
but of unadulterated and divine decrees.
I'm so wistful.
My body shatters at the thought of home, of comfort, of love.
The fragments form a barrier around me,
a territorial wire with thorny thistles ready to attack.
I'm so divided.
Half of my mangled mind grasps onto you,
your memories and your love.
The other detaches, similarly to the way in which my mind
departs from reality.
I'm so disconnected.
Yet this feeling is sewn strangely into my wounds,
tied too tight to let go.
Maybe if the thread was to be loosened,
I would fall apart forever.