There are certain things that are better left unsaid I feel, but there are things that go unsaid that must be said. Finding the line between the two is arithmetic. I've never been good at math. Thoughts are burning holes inside my mind, this is my attempt to bring them to life.
To doubt oneself is a crooked path. I can't think of a deeper pain currently. Is it lowered self esteem? A lack of confidence? I doubt every thought as it enters my mind. I feel I'm not capable of intelligent thought. I want to come to realizations and feel bliss as they overcome me with truth.
I am the problem, I am always wrong, I am too sensitive, I am a mistake. This is what my mind tells me. I've come to believe parts of it. I am insane. I must be, or else I wouldn't destroy my own mind. Self doubt is a slow burning poison. Someday it will devour me whole. I wait for the day I can no longer trust a single thought. When the poison has won.
I will now move the topic from my self doubt, to my thoughts of suicide. My mind is a vice, it creates mass destruction upon my body. It tells me tales of a future I could have, if only I bring the knife to my throat. A future full of a release. Release of all my ghosts and all my nightmares. It sounds so blissful I cannot wish these thoughts away.
A future on this earth seems disastrous no matter how my mind plays it through. It always ends in pain. I've endured enough pain for a lifetime, I no longer wish to feel anymore. I am trapped inside a body that fuels a burning self hatred. How can I thrive in such a mess? I do not see this through, because I see no way it can be seen through.
Now I'll speak of Ana. Oh Ana. We've seen eachother for so long. I want to see you go, but you always stay around. She brings me so much joy, as she breaks me down. Piece by piece I whither away. But she makes it feel so lovely. I'm back to counting pounds as I watch them go away. It makes me feel so accomplished. So wonderfully empty. Ana creates such beauty and she's using me as her canvas. I view her as my angel. God please, take her away.
I don't believe I'm running out of time, I don't believe time exists. My process has been broken for ages. It's no longer steady working. It's aging down and breaking. Maybe I could fix it. But I. Dont. Care. I must emphasize those words. Because they are pertinent in explaining why I'm finished soon. I do not care to get better. My mind is barren of life. My process will come to a halt.
YOU ARE READING
My Tragedies
PoesíaThis is a collection of poems when I've been my most depressed and low. Trigger warning. If you relate to any of these, please reach out. It's never too late.
