I am alone, as I have always been, as is my natural state
I am tired, as I have been for too long, as I became comfortable with
Only my depression and anxiety feel right
I cannot be happy
I will never be
I am unlovable
I am broken
I am baggage
It is in my nature to want to die
Why would anyone want to live like this?
I drink myself to sleep, I smoke until I can't breathe, and somehow that makes me feel alive
I am mortal, I can end this seemingly never-ending train of consciousness
I cannot remember the last time I was genuinely happy
Is it because I have never been genuinely happy?
My step-dad would only take us out when he and my mom fought or when he would abuse my oldest sister
He would take us to Fontana Park, random Amish stores, Iowa City, Des Moines
All to try to convince us that everything was okay, to cover up the dismay, the pain
All of my "happy" memories come from lies
Lies my mother told herself, lies I told myself
I often asked my mom "when are we going home?" But what a ridiculous thing to ask when you don't have one