I feel sick. That is all I can affirm. All else is a complicated shroud of nagging, stinging vociferations the other me is putting together as I go.
You need to work. Come on. Not that you're able to make much of it. You're not allowed to rest. You're not allowed to get better, write, evacuate or feel happy. You cannot love, for you feel too exhausted. Nobody understands your exhaustion.
I want to sleep. No, I don't, it hurts.
Come suffocate in the sheets' arms and wake up to your broken pieces.
