Vultures And Other Vulnerabilities.

Mixtures Of Illness.

                                                    Loneliness and Anxiety, a mix deadlier than sin.

I am hyperventilating again.

The wind is roaring at my window shutter mimicking
the anger displaced in the deep rooted mausoleums
inside of me.
This panic attack is as deep as grave.
As lonely as a parking lot at 1 am.
As lonely as me at 6.

Insomnia has this moon stricken way of persuading
me that more often than not, there is romanticism
in refusing to close your eyes.
In having the lights on at 3 am petrified of a darkness
that eclipses itself so completely.
Petrified of anything that can make you blind to the
possibilities that knock on the door of your insecurity.

The one moment that you cannot bring yourself to open up,
Is always the one moment they come and get you.

I've always wanted to sneak out.
Run around a field at midnight pretending the world
was ending and I was the only one left.

I fantasize about that more often than I fantasize about
being happy.
I don't fantasize about being happy a lot because there's no
point craving what you can't have.
That hurts.
I hurt a lot.
I hurt like a gunshot wound to the head.
I hurt like alcohol rubbed into a cut eye socket.

What I mean to say is, my pain can look a lot like a weightless
smile when put under that tragic way the world looks
at things.

I am a magician who can vanish in mid-air.
No one cares about my absence.
The round of applause continues, long after I've gone.

You know... I've always resented the fact that
anxiety was given a name.
It just makes it so much easier to get attached to.

I don't have a name.
I have a feeling; one I would rather not have.
A smile that's bearing a bite of corrupted loneliness.
Self-destructive eyes like a crocodile swimming behind
its prey.
But I am the predator,
and also the prey.

I am going to be the ruin of myself.
I am going to ruin alone.
I wish, my self-destruct was not a lonely
route to crawl:

But loneliness looks a lot like me when in the corner of
a book store, evaluating poetry like they were my
own flaws,
convincing myself that it's okay to glance sadness,
and think that it looks a lot like me.

Here. Waiting.

I am hyperventilating again...
I wish I didn't see happiness, as some other
plane of which I need to jump
through lay lines to get back to.
Back too.

Screw romanticizing it:
I had never been there in the first place.