Letting go.
It can’t get to me.
Everything dies.
And what’s left is me.
What I want.
Where I am.
The place I created.
The love for people, places and sounds.
Stripped down.
Still a creature.
I’m everything.
Yet nothing lasting.
Yet never dying.
Always changing.
But my love remains.

Even if in reality it hurts so deep
we often choose the path of least resistance and will remain
content with our oppressors.

"Write," people say.
"It'll help with the pain."
But what if every time I pick up a pencil
I only go more insane?

I stay in my depression.
I can't say I'm brave.
I'm stuck on this merry-go- round
and I no longer want to play.

It doesn't make me stronger.
It only makes me sadder.
If this goes on any longer
I know I will decay.

Writing is a reminder
of where and how I went wrong.
It reminds me of the regrets,
I'm hearing the same old song.

So when people tell me to write
I want to sit and scream.
All I ever wanted was
to leave this dreadful dream.

Staring back at a skeleton,
watching the sharp, jutting
edges of my ribs ripple
like ocean waves whenever I move.
I can see the bones in my
back
chest
arms
legs
hands
And even though I'm near my death bed
all I see is a fat girl instead.