sort of in doubt of my progress every time i hear a tired sigh, watch a pair of eyes roll upward, try to ignore the whispers in the dark late at night. it seems like the weight of this body is catching up to me all at once, holding me down in an iron fist of the unknown. my pen runs dry and my fingertips bleed ink and the corner of my bedroom is my favorite spot to shut my eyes and sleep. my limbs are heavy, these aching parts begging to be freed. ghosts eat away at my brain like gray poison, but i can never ******* scare them away.