And now.
The depression sets in.
As the SSRI leaves my body.
And in this muck, this helpless mire.
I feel the constant sensation.
Of wanting to die.

Hoplessness.
Dichotomous thinking.
A general feeling of dis-ease.
Guilt and a desire to punish.
Myself.

Sober?
Why?
So I can sleep all day.
Starve myself.
Self crit with self abuse?
Another psychotic break with reality?

It's not like I painted it all black.
It's more despair.
At the incompetence of my life choices.
It's just a niggling suspicion.
That this too.
Is pointless.

So, I'll recede into my vivid dreams.
Off the pills.
The ones that mock me with all my.
Imperfections.

I've got a list of everything.
I hate about myself.
Maybe an addendum or two.
Of what I like.

Nothing causes this listless wandering in torpor.
It came from out of knowhere.
Left field.
Out of the blue.
When I was 12.
And, nothing.
Makes.
It.
Go.
Away.

I imagine torturing myself.
To express how much I hate myself.
So the outside matches the inside.

This temple so sacred.
I will desecrate it.
I will conform reality.
To how I feel.

Horrible.