Goddamn, I just wrote this awesome thing and then hit a button and lost it all. Story of my life. Such effort for something meaningful and then one wrong move and *poof it’s all gone.
Any small good thing that ever happens to me is bound to be followed with something about a thousand times worse right on its heels. Or I’ll find a unique way to turn it into something just awful and lose my stupid mind over it.
I’m all missed connections and wires that aren’t hooked up quite right. Gears not lining up properly, hearts just that split second off beat. Breaths too early, or too late. Too many blinks, with nothing of substance in between. No way to escape this cerebral, grey-scale half dream.
Why stand, why walk – why move at all. When it’s all painted in the same ghastly pallor of nonexistence and ineffectual ignorance.
Heart beats itself to death.
That’s the kind of poetry I write. The kind that has you bleeding from both wrists before you realize you’re even holding the razor blade. And that maybe it’s been in your hand all along – just waiting.
I can feel the weight upon my chest. My lungs seem to forget how to breathe. Or why.
People don’t believe me when I tell them. Because I wear the masks so well. I can even fool myself, because I have to. There’s nothing else for me to do. But sometimes it just pulls me down, sucks me under and makes me remember all the demons I carry on my back. They scream my name and claw into what little flesh I have left. Preying on my tired mind and lurking in its shadowy corners.
Nobody understands. There’s nobody to talk to. So I just have to pretend they’re not there, the demons. Until one day I can’t, and they come for me. In light, or darkness, it won’t make a shred of difference. When I break again it will be permanent and there will be no going back and no recovery. Because there won’t be anything left.