May. 17th. 2024

I think there’s something wrong with me

You see, I wake up and despise my skin, but it’s tainted in pale poison while my insides rot- and only I can see.

Maybe there is something wrong with me. I take my flaw as my anecdote and, if required, an excuse.

Under the impression I’m at least broken, I am not dull, but this plea is tired, and so am I.

Every morning, I search for the reasons for my hurt. Since I stopped listening to my calling, I can hear the silence, now.

it’s all too loud or too quiet and I used to make noise and why did I stop?

You don’t understand. Everything is boring, not bad. and I am not a fighter like I was at 16.

I sleep it off and only wake worse, only aging, losing and losing—more. Time erases memories quicker as years pass; people lose their grip amongst what must be love and hate but it hurts the same so I don’t know.

 I wish to escape, to dream, to float and float and float, where no one ever ages and my brain doesn’t think. My mother is aging, but I run to her and beg her to stay closer, to rock me in her arms, and to rewind time to yesterday. I let her tie the bows into my hair.

Why are we losing? I progress, so I am told, but I start to doubt there is a peak. 

Papa, please hug me a little longer and tell me everything will be fine. I’m still young, and time is not running out. Tell me you will always read to me before bed—and everything will stay where I wanted it to before I had to remember it. My old bedroom could be purple or pink—I don’t know. 

God, tell me happiness is real—or maybe Santa is. Tell me I have a plan. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry I doubted you. Is this what it feels like to be abandoned?  

I froze and flailed; there must be something wrong with me because why can't I smile like I did in my baby pictures, and how can I be sure that was even me?

I am selfish, with the air I breathe

I am selfish