I knew then that
something was wrong
with me.
I knew when I scribbled
sweet nothings on lined paper,
words of longing and regret
so dark I couldn't believe
they flowed from my pen.
"It's just fiction,"
I claimed but a faint
tugging at my weak
heartstrings proved otherwise.
Summer of 2013 hit
me like an angry tsunami,
ripping everything I loved
away from me
in a split second,
agonizingly alone and
left with far too much time
to contemplate things
beyond my control.
The littlest of things could
send me into a crying fit,
a single broken memory
knocking me on to my back
in one fell swoop,
unaware that I
had begun digging
the hole I was trapped in
long before I fell into its depths.
Not six feet under,
not yet, hopefully never,
but three feet at least,
shocked realizations
facing clouded mirrors that
I HATE MYSELF, and
everything I seem to represent.
It’s incredibly frustrating to
push and pull at a way
of life that won’t collapse;
to WANT so badly but never
RECIEVE.
The worst part is seeing the
others, somehow enjoying
being 15 and powerless and
stressed and consistently
worried. Then I remember:
that’s only me, I’m the only
one that’s drowning, and I
ignored the neon sign that
read “No Lifeguards: Swim at
Your Own Risk.”
I knew something was
wrong with me and with
barricades raised I could never
pinpoint exactly what it was.