But when is too late?

maggie-mcleod Poems

I can feel myself sliding away. I try to speak. I try to let the words spill, but I clam up. My vocal chords freeze, and nothing comes out. I gape and gasp like a frog, but all of me chokes up. My throat tingles, my tongue goes to the back of my mouth. My mind is turning against me. I think strange thoughts. What would happen if I took this pen and shoved it down my throat? If I drank all my pills? If I curled up in a corner and mumbled insanities to myself- nonstop? I want to kick and scream, flail around on the ground and give myself rugburns Slam into things and bruise. Take a razor to my legs, arms I've done it before. I have scars. Scars of insanity. But am I really insane? Would they really help me at a loony bin? I think not. I'm not even insane, though. I'm just a stupid, naive, hopeless hormonal teenager. And besides, I may be too far gone into my withdrawal. It's too late. I can't go back to the way I was before, when I was happier. It's all too late.