She's back. The monster. I feel her. Under my skin, inside my head. She's everywhere. The urge. I can't stop it.
The monsters in my head are frightening for the very same reason everyone believes they shouldn't be, They aren't real, and day in and day out I have to live with this knowledge.That my own mind is working against me. Whispering dark things in the middle of the night, disobeying my desperate cries to stop.
I feel so very fucking tired, like the world is draining me for everything I have. And I am so sorry, I swear I was doing so much better. I made so much progress, I was even almost happy, I don't know what happened. Something went wrong and now I find myself gasping for breath.
But I don't know when it happened or when it started but I started losing my mind again. And I think I'm missing pieces and myself and I don't know how to find them. Silence is the loudest things that's ever from my head, when the voices start screaming your better off dead. What is there to live for when you already dead inside?
They say, "Jump right out your window sill, we won't catch you but the ground surely will." When I start to cry, I clutch the pillow to my chest and let it happen. I cry hard, like a child cries, until my face is hot and I fell like I might be sick. I can pretend to be okay, but I know I'm not.
I'm standing at the edge, and there is no honest way to explain it because the only people who really know where it is are the ones who have gone over. Everything hurts, I feel in pain. In pain everyday. My brains knows I am nothing, and this causes so much pain. The pain grows in every cell of my body, like a disease that eats from the inside out.
Soon I'll just be a shell, because there will be nothing left on the inside. No heart, no thinking, no emotions. Just a skin that walks around all day hurting. That's how I feel. Who am I to feel more alienated from the world with each passing day? Who am I to feel happy, to be free, to be cured; It doesn't happen. And it won't.
Part of me wants to be hospitalized, part of me wants to stay home. Part of me wants to die, part of me wants to live. Part of me wants to relapse, part of me wants to recover. My own mind is a murderous adversary, an enemy under my own skin, and nothing is quite so terrifying.
YOU ARE READING
Dear Withered Writing
PoetryI write because my soul lies beneath the ink. And with every slip of my pen, sparks return to exhale passion and reason into my writing. (This book has become my therapy, and it will either lead me to get better. Or lead me to death.)
