It grabbed me again, that feeling.
bare neck
it dug its claws.

Deeper and deeper,
it consumes.

Inside me,
A tunnel filled with cars
ramming into each other—
one after another,
one after another
they hit,
they break,
Producing bangs
that flood my body.

Clawing at my own skin
to remove them,
“I just want them out” I say
but my body doesn’t listen.
My mind ignores me.
And it just builds.

It grabbed me last year, that feeling.

A stress,
A draining anxiousness
******* nutrients from my roots.
Kolding back the words I needed
to get me out
to let me grow
from the rooms
that confined my mind.

Aching pains
that stretched me
between all these worlds,

“Am I good enough?”
“Will I disappoint?”
“Why will I never be good enough”—
a thought that lingers.
“Why do I like nothing about myself”

This feeling,
This nagging demon,
This tunnel of cars
that won’t listen
to the stop
that I shout,

this draining anxiousness.  

Please—
Let me go.

I don’t get my mind.

Sometimes I hate myself.
Sometimes I want to hate myself.
Sometimes, I just don’t get it.

I sit still—
And yet, am I still?

I shake uncontrollably,
internally.

Do I feel safe
in this skin,
in this mind that hurts?

When silence is a reward,
Is life the punishment?

Spending time with people
you care for them,
you love the time,
you cherish,
you live,
you exist
and yet,

I still need the silence.

But what happens
When silence starts to feel unsafe?
When sitting still and movement
both become burdens?

Tied to a screen,
To a mirror,
To an expectation
Of how life will go—
Because if it doesn’t...

Then am I just existing to take up space someone else should’ve had?

Maybe my pain lets someone else
Be happy,

Just for a moment.

If I go,
I want all to know—
Maybe it will work out for the better.

Maybe silence,
Sitting still,
Alone.

Maybe that is all I need

Time is out,

Tomorrow watches me - I look back,
Building a chair in anticipation of my arrival It whispers to me,
“You’ll never be ready”

I blame myself,
The silence that filled moments,
Times I should’ve listened
To the effort that was screaming to be,

A knife i stuck in my own back,
The knife I placed there
The knife that I wanted to be the reason I failed?

Did I ever want to succeed?

Did I avoid trying so I had more to blame than just not being able to cut it?

I don’t try, I don’t succeed.
What… do I expect of me?

When moments of need
Moments in which I should’ve done more,
I stood still.
Contemplating a life that I’m not fighting for-

And now it’s too late,
Time is short— what-else is left,
But to now sit in thought,
Alone with the understanding,

That I did this.
I hurt myself.
I deserve the failure that will consume me.

Was time too short,
Or did I just ignore it.