Dear whoever:
To Whom It May Concern:
I’m writing this to let you know-
I can’t-
One filled up bin
One wrecked notebook
One hundred crumpled pages later
My throat is so tight
My hands are bleeding
My eyes are sore
How do I tell them?
Am I too sick to care?
Am I too sick to recover?
“You have so many reasons to live”
Yet those reasons seem to be a fiction you feed to me whilst you write notes down into your leather-bound journal
My head is such a mess that all the wounds in it continue to tear and open
At this point there is no possibility of being stitched up
Rejection after rejection
Loss after loss
I felt hopeful for 2 hours earlier today and then got an email reminding me that I am just not quite good enough
“So when is the last time you genuinely felt happy”
Maybe it was when I was 7 or 8 and sat on the grass building make-believe worlds the suns gentle warmth pressed lightly against my back, knowing I could cry and people would listen because I was young and still had so much to learn
I long for that blissful naivety of being young
And though I know I am still young (ish) , I am not young enough
And so many people stripped me of my youth way too soon because being a teenager you’re told to aspire to act grown up which wore me out so much
That those days were still filled with
One filled up bin
One wrecked notebook
One hundred crumpled pages later
I never intended to live this long.
Apr 10, 2018
Apr 10, 2018 at 5:22 PM UTC
Dear whoever:
To Whom It May Concern:
I’m writing this to let you know-
I can’t-
One filled up bin
One wrecked notebook
One hundred crumpled pages later
My throat is so tight
My hands are bleeding
My eyes are sore
How do I tell them?
Am I too sick to care?
Am I too sick to recover?
“You have so many reasons to live”
Yet those reasons seem to be a fiction you feed to me whilst you write notes down into your leather-bound journal
My head is such a mess that all the wounds in it continue to tear and open
At this point there is no possibility of being stitched up
Rejection after rejection
Loss after loss
I felt hopeful for 2 hours earlier today and then got an email reminding me that I am just not quite good enough
“So when is the last time you genuinely felt happy”
Maybe it was when I was 7 or 8 and sat on the grass building make-believe worlds the suns gentle warmth pressed lightly against my back, knowing I could cry and people would listen because I was young and still had so much to learn
I long for that blissful naivety of being young
And though I know I am still young (ish) , I am not young enough
And so many people stripped me of my youth way too soon because being a teenager you’re told to aspire to act grown up which wore me out so much
That those days were still filled with
One filled up bin
One wrecked notebook
One hundred crumpled pages later
I never intended to live this long.
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