oh my bones ache! They rattle in my skin like the coldest whisper spoke between my pores.
And I'm empty.
I've read recovery stories, I've read articles, they all lead the same.
I've asked for help and once I do, the very thing that helps me contact people- shatters or breaks.
like glass
The same voice I use to cry out and ask the Lord for help wavers and cracks. Eventually losing it's sound all together.
So here I am...how long ago?
I no longer wish to ask for help.
Because the only way you can win a battle within yourself is to decide.
How can you kill the thing that's killing you without killing yourself? There's no beautiful way to say it. They speak of killing the thing that kills you and it doesn't have to be yourself.
(But I'm the plague)
It's no longer depression, or rage, or anxiety. (my name must be Cosmos. Speaking only of the flower and the demise)
It's myself. I'm killing me, so I might as well do it literally. The fight isnt worth it. I have nothing tying me down to this Earth. To this dimension.
I pray to God- even though he's been ignoring me. That perhaps in another life, dimension, galaxy: I'm happy.
I wake up the lines in my face arent from frowning or my brow furrowing.
It's from uncontrollable fits of happiness. The planes in my face lift. The light in my eyes is contagious.
I hope there's a version of me out there that can learn how to save this version of me.
I don't want help anymore because it hasnt worked. (you cannot force sunshine upon a seed, nor can you drown it away, simply being the flower, they must make a choice.)
The advice is empty. The sympathy is staged. It's all an act and yet I can't figure out how to change my script, or my character.
I blame the director.
I blame whoever's adjusting the lights in my face. Blinded.
That's it perhaps. (seeped into the vines like poison on thorns) I think people like me are the few that are made for breaking.
Suicide notes, I've read and related. We have become too much. We don't quite fit into the shoes that we're given.
So we wait.
I got tired.
Now I'm barefoot. Blistered and bloody, but I kept running.
When people told me to just put on my shoes, it's just that easy.
"It's just that easy." Your happiness morphed for you might be just that easy. But I can no longer force a smile.
Or force a fake recovery. I'm tired of saying "I am better."I'm tired of saying, "I feel like I'm getting through this."
I'm tired of faking it until I make it because look where it has gotten me?
I've switched tactics. I've spoken in tongues and cries and it all brings me back to why I'm here.
Then I ask, is it the creator I'm angry with?
How can you speak of not making mistakes and then shun the very people you say are mistakes?
Even in the bible: love is exclusive.
The world is exclusive.
I'm ready to take myself out of the equation forever (to uproot the stunted growth and save the rest of the soil from blight)
