there wasn’t a significant point in time when everything turned wrong
I hadn’t woken up one day realizing that I was cursed
like in a dream when you realize you aren’t awake
and none of this is real
but the feeling began somewhere
I remember times when I felt home, never lonely
since then there has been a gradual crushing silence
a sharp knife cutting deeper and deeper
with the weight of years of self hate
and the months I had sat upright in bed
as dust settled on my skin
like opening the door of an attic
for the first time
after forgetting it even existed
I knew I was already dead.
someone told me: make your life worth writing about
I thought of all the things I could say
I thought of choking on them or swallowing them whole
all the words and their combinations that could describe this era
I have not learned yet
of all the chapter books I created in my head
mine is a story the world will never finish reading
because it is dull and melancholy
like the way every day feels the same
all of the personal narratives and essays I had written in school were a lie
I won’t write about the future
I loathe the present
whispers of the past made me numb
although I don’t hate previous versions of myself
I see them all individually
as ordinary people I once was
they could be anyone.
I look into my mirror
I liked it better with cracks and scratches
because then I could see my genuine reflection
nothing I tell myself is honest, I hide behind my own deception
the daggers of delusion inches from my veins
ready to slice me in two
there is no such thing as an alter ego
as much as my mind tries to convince me
that I’m not alone
that there are other personas living inside me
and you only get to see one.