My life feels like the rip in my coat pocket.
It's not really damaged. Just torn at the seams. Easily fixed if only I knew how.
If I had the needle and the thread and the steady hands needed.
Instead, I fiddle with the loose thread.
I pull, and I pull, and I pull, and it only gets worse.
Part of me knows that if I left it alone, it wouldn't get so bad.
I can't seem to help myself.
There's this destructive urge that scratches at the back of my mind.
Pull. Pull. Pull.
Now that tiny rip is a gaping hole.
The pocket useless.
Unable to hold the things it once held.
My keys. My phone. My loose change.
My happiness. My eagerness. My hopefulness.
It all slips through.
What was once easily fixed is now damaged.
Not beyond repair, just more than I know what to do with.
More noticeable. Less acceptable. Seen as replaceable.
YOU ARE READING
The diary of Seth Alexander
PoetryI write to cope with life, so maybe this might help someone else cope too, idk. Trigger warning for suicidal ideation, S/A, and Abuse. There's not many mentions of them directly as this is more about my emotions and moments of reflection, all neatl...
