I don’t really keep a diary anymore;
it seems kinda normalized to down a couple of pills instead
of learn how to look at myself in the mirror.
I wish I could say I’ve become numb, but the reality is
and it tears me apart and it crawls into my bed and I can’t
sleep anymore, although when I do it’s
too much and my head is fuzzy from avoiding
I wish I could say I don’t dream, but I do
and my dreams are half-truths of reality,
twisted and mutilated to torment my anxieties
because I am my worst nightmare, I am
my biggest enemy and I know
that I should try to be better, I know,
but it seems so much easier
to play along like everything is fine and to not
ask anyone for anything.
I don’t know how they don’t see me
drowning. I don’t know why I don’t
ask for help
I want to, but god knows I always
crawl in on myself before placing the burden
I’m not going to risk
taking any more bodies down with me.