what kind of person fantasizes about being sicker than they already are? man, it's time I realize life is worth it and I've made it this far when I can't forget, can't forgive, and get stuck tires spinning, thoughts running, strength thinning out of control what role does my faith play in feeling whole? I wish I could erase this hole eating away inside but then I might just feel more empty I try to cut through the feelings by cutting through the skin that covers this lifeless body the razor shreds my flesh instead of fleshing out all of the chaos inside this mess of a mind
You told me you didn’t want us to have any words left unsaid that night, so I told you everything, but over-thinkers like us can never really leave a conversation with everything on the table. I didn’t tell you thank you, thank you for making me want to be the best version of myself, and for making me feel butterflies I thought were dead forever. I’ve had to keep my mind busy, for when it stops I always find my thoughts displaying our memories like art in a museum, I keep racing to the door, but it’s locked and I can’t escape, I feel trapped in a nightmare I can’t wake up from. If you’re reading this I have only one more thing to say, it doesn’t come with subtext or any expectations, I just want to say I miss you.
there’s a living reality of fallibly hopeful distraction— sheltered squatters— residing above a room where everything important is angry, not easily suffocated. the warm polyester of a busy mind is sick with monotonous fear that the residents below will expand their decay, raging in a panic until the walls collapse and the nails in the floorboards are upturned and weaponized; a clever, persistent enemy. this unbearably, infallibly hopeless struggle. there are paintings on the walls and books on the shelf, plants on the windowsill in the late afternoon. i’m worried these will die too.
my hands tremble on paper, the sharp pencil crisply glides, across sheets spread out on the table. my feelings are laid bare, dispossessed of the weapons. history is written in the past. so why am i worried about the future? ink laid bare across battlefields of corpses. these documents have split apart lives, memories and hopes. i bury all hopes of being happy in this world. because what i want must not be confused with what i must feel. so i hide behind these words, writing thousands of pages, scrolling past ages and ages of sacrifice. to only end up saying nothing at all. d o n o t h i d e
who am I? why is it that i am feeling this way? i guess we'll never know.