Recovery

Why Did I Let Him Hurt Me?

Sometimes I feel so empty that I wonder if a thief is coming into my room at night, cutting me open, and stealing my organs. Or maybe that’s just you. There’s a hollow ache in my rib cage where the love is supposed to sit. And I know that I have an exhausting amount of life left to live, and chances are, fate is so witty that the person who craves death will live beyond their fifties. Maybe it’s the depression talking, but I can’t feel my heart, it’s gotten so numb from the cold and the cold shoulder you’ve given me, I’d rather you break my shoulders, both of them, than freeze yours regarding us. Open up. I’m right here, can’t you hear me? And I’m so tired sometimes, no matter how much caffeine I inject into my veins, I can’t get you out of them I can’t get my eyelids to stay open. And I am not special, blood runs in my veins like everyone else. But it’s sluggish and I’m desperate for it to move faster, to get oxygen to my heart that’s screaming out for your air. I don’t know how an absence of something can be so consuming. But the emptiness drips into my stomach and pounds in my jaw, and I’ve been trying to fill it, I’ve wanted you so long, but nobody drowns out the white noise, they go to shut it off. Do you ever contemplate life or why you’re here at all? Because the far end of my hope looks like a cliff I want to fall. They say mental illness is as real as a broken bone, but if it’s mental, then why does my body feel so slow?