i live in a house of four walls and a roof
cemented together with peep holes;
letting the outsiders become audience of the classic play of unstable mental health in my rooms.
maybe my interior designer was one of those romanticizing fool
trying to help me by turning this place into a museum with stigmatized ruins.
because everything here screams of glorifying my struggles
putting them on the stage of world with medals and trophies for how "cool" they are.
screams on how
instead
of booking an appointment with a therapist for this afternoon
i should be looking for a crowd to recite my thoughts on how everyone loathes me.
so i listen to them as i step into my bathtub,
filled with ice cold water to brim;
fully clothed from the outside and yet stripping away flesh i wore on the inside.
i dip myself deep enough to block away every air passage
gripping the side handles as a backup plan just in case.
for
what if
the pills in my bathroom cabinet doesn't turn into arrows from a cupid's bows,
to tear my flesh apart till the poison of depression gets neutralized with happiness.
what if
the songs and ballads i hear in the radio about staying strong doesn't turn into my inner voice
at 4 am when i am writhing with panic attacks on my bedroom floor.
what if
the films and shows i watch on the television on getting well in the end
was all an illusion created by inexperienced producers in the name of "awareness".
what if
the quotes and photographs i like on tumblr and instagram on finding the beauty in pain
was just from a person who hype this traumatizing act of unstability.
alas,
it was all a lie.
for here i am,gasping for air and yet not planting my feet to rise up from the water because i want to get better.
i want to escape this stupid cage of unproductivity;
this stupid web of lacking interest in everything i love ever since i was a baby.
i am trying to find fingertrips to replace the side handles i have held my loose grip on.
i am trying to listen to the bathroom door open.listen to the approaching footsteps of my shining knight in armor. because isn't that what those shows and poetries depicted? find "the one" and put a full stop to this never ending bizarre within your hollow bones.
but all i am met with is an eerie silence with occasional interruption of my gasps.
soon, my hands starts to loose the grip as my lungs drown deeper into this experimental water
i feel the blood getting more diluted within my veins;
the air is now replaced with this fluid which was supposed to be my escape.
i struggle for a few more seconds till my body reflexes come back alive.
i hastingly get my feet on the marble and pull myself up and don't wait for someone anymore.
shivering from head to toe, i proceed to my phone.
booking a therapy session sharp at 4 pm this afternoon.
