i. i want to cease existence - and i don't say this out of want to die. i'm not a suicidal person, at least, i wouldn't categorise myself as such. no, what i mean i that i just want to be able to take a step back for five minutes so i can regain my footing and catch my breath before i fall. before something happens. before i become another statistic.
ii. i cannot, will not become yet another statistic. i cannot, will not become their poster child. woe is the queer child with mental illness, gone is their life. i cannot, will not.
iii. but the screaming, it haunts me. the crying every so often, salt water stinging cheeks, the ocean rolling in waves from my tear ducts. the cries for help that no one acknowledges or wants to or cares enough to. the lack of want of interest of true joy and empathy.
iv. i weep for the child i was; i mourn the adult i could have been. look to the heavens with dead eyes pleading what next. there's nothing. i am nothing. i was born nothing. i will die nothing.
v. the nurse told my mumma that i would grow up to be a heartbreaker. does my own heart count? idealistic expectations make everything so damn disappointing, rooted in a lack of understanding reality.
vi. i won't be fixed over night. rome wasn't built in a day. but like rome, i am destroyed by one event, never the same again, never as great as i used to be, this gifted child turned existentialist, lost in their own fucking mind.
vii. have you seen this person? they've been missing so long we ought to close the case and pronounce them dead. they left in the middle of the night, set off down a path, was never heard of again. we'd send a search party but it's too much; they aren't that valuable.
viii. the moon even abandoned me, shook her head, and called me disappointing, said i'd never sleep on my own under her watch. i thrash in her silver beams, sob into my pillow, allow myself to break over and over until she grants me some level of unconsciousness out of pity.
