trigger warning: implied self-harm
and it’s on nights like these, when the empty feeling comes for me. when i cry my eyes out, and i don’t feel better. and i lock myself in the darkness of my closet, and i stay there.
when i want to scream, like the world is ending. scream, until my throat finally melts under the red-hot pressure. and my fingertips wither like dying flowers at the keyboard, and i can’t do this anymore.
and the walls press in around me. and my shaking hands want to kill me, and it’s not that i hate myself. it’s that i don’t think i can breathe if i keep this in any longer.
and i scream. and i cry. and i know i shouldn’t do it. shouldn’t take out this feeling on my skin. and i know it’s not productive, and i know i’m three months clean of this for a reason…
but i just can’t make myself care anymore.
Today has really sucked, honestly. I can’t remember the last time I felt this stressed out. I’m getting ready for my podcast to launch, and I just downloaded a new audio editor that should let me make some pretty epic spoken word tracks, and I started my French course at school and was emailing people almost nonstop all day—and I guess it was just too much, and I ended up having a whole breakdown a couple hours ago. I guess that’s the kind of feeling this poem is supposed to capture–this chaos and pain and overwhelm, all coming together way, way too fast. So yeah. I hope you all are doing well, throughout this whole mess of a month–and I hope that things get better soon.