I'm
just
done.
I'm so sick of caring
and then getting hurt
from it.
I want to be loved again
but I try and they act like
I don't exist
and baby it makes me not want to
but so does everything else so I guess that's just
o-fucking-kay.
(Gerard Way)
Songs hum in the background.
I text Will.
He texts me.
I complain.
He jokes.
I joke.
I talk
and talk
and numb.
I feel shameful.
I feel guilty.
No, I feel fucking sick.
I feel like I'm going to throw up.
My anxiety is compressing my stomach and all of the contents in it.
Compressing and compressing and putting it into a small locked box.
It's waiting to be opened.
It opens and out pours my mind and not my food from today.
I'm so fat.
I'm so hideous.
I feel sick to my stomach and all I really want to do is die.
Its numb. I'm done. I'm gone.
NO ONE IS FUCKING HOME SO STOP KNOCKING!
YOU ARE READING
Outcast
PoetryOn the way home. Dad's arguing. Austin's shouting. I want to disappear. Dad's shouting. I'm arguing. Austins arguing. Austin's shouting. I'm suffocating. They're arguing. I'm hiding now. Or distracted, for lack of better words. I'm trying but I can'...
