i went to my doctor this week.

"i feel
disconnected
from everything. like i am living
in a dream--
i am numb,
and i am scared.
i'm on autopilot all the time."

she asked me questions
about my dark thoughts,
my sicknesses;
acid boiling in my stomach,
crippling hammer-and-nails-to-the-temple headaches,
sweating even in winter's bitter chill,
my inability to sleep without fear.

i'm rubbing the tops of my hands and it hurts.
it feels like rug-burn.
my hands are turning red, raw.
i will be picking the scabs for days.

"do you think about hurting yourself?"

"no, i would never do anything," i lie, as i am currently hurting myself.
she doesn't notice.

"do you ever think, when you go to bed, about not waking up the next day?"

"yes."
it caught me off guard,
i couldn't lie to that.
i am shaking.
i am rubbing the tops of my hands.
i am repeating phrases in my head.
i am shaking.
i am rubbing the tops of my hands.
i am scared.
i am scared.
i am scared.

i am on autopilot.
i can't turn myself off.
i am scared.
i am rubbing the tops of my hands.
they are raw.
they are raw.
i am thinking about the scabs.
i am on autopilot.
i can't turn myself off.
turn me off.
turn me off.
turn me off.