each slit,
a way for me to drift.
a distraction,
with temporary satisfaction.
each pill that I pop in
makes me ill.
as my eyes get heavy,
as my feet get unsteady,
and I drop to my knee
with tears welling in my eyes
wishing for me to be finally free.
with each laceration
tearing through my tendons, blood vessels,
and muscles,
my eyes squeeze shut,
as I feel the warm fluid flowing down my knuckles.
I try to keep myself steady,
but then I hear a little voice,
"You're not yet ready."
and my eyes jolt open,
as everything happens in slow motion.
I find myself a little more broken
with a little flame burning inside of me,
asking me to hold on just a little longer.
***
PS: Hey readers! I knowww, I know I've been away for too long. I've just been busy with college and dealing with my own mental health. Every time I would feel low, I would just blurt out words on my Notes app, but it was nothing worth posting.
But today, I was feeling extremely low, and this is what came out.
(Don't worry, I'm gonna be fine :) )
YOU ARE READING
Trapped in my own head
PoesíaShe is an outcast. She finds it easier to express what she feels in the form of writing. Whether it is poems, letters or long texts. These are poems that she writes trying to describe how it feels to live with certain mental health issues, in a worl...
