W. I. P.

W.I.P.

I laugh with my head bowed

and my mouth covered.

 

I speak too much

while I am told

I barely say anything.

 

I look in from outside

as previous friends

revel in their lives, their warmth.

If only I could

grab it, somehow.

 

I can’t multitask anymore.

Everything falls

from my fumbling fingers and

shatters. Then I have to

pick it up, piece by piece.

 

My father is strong.

But he is not interested,

does not show his care.

 

My mother is stronger,

has lived through a lot.

She tries to push her views on me

resulting in harsh words, tears, and strikes.

Though these marks will heal, with time.

 

I cannot eat, now,

because I do not have the time

nor the energy.

I’m only 13 pounds underweight -

this, alone, I should be able to survive.

 

Sleep is the only thing

I can do today.

I’m too exhausted to raise my head from the pillow

and I have to remind myself

to inhale.

That breathing is necessary.

I forget, sometimes.

 

I need to concentrate, I am stressed -

But I have been for a long time:

why is my body giving out now?

 

I need to get help

for the fact that my forearms burn

for the fact that I cannot eat

that I am no longer my mother’s son

that I’m in so deep over my head I can’t breathe

and why

 

I need to talk to someone

about these deep, red, lines

these welts that will never fade off my arms

caused by my own self

about being so lethargic that a five year old can outrun me

can out-eat me

 

I’m afraid I’ll lose control

that one day, I’ll give in to the demons,

beckoning at the edge

of this abyss.

Yet it is something I am drawn to,

I want to test and study it,

how deep it goes.

 

Don’t the moments before death

seem so interesting?

Those few, final seconds,

as your brain releases

its last few drugs into your system

and your vision goes black

you remember your days, the satisfied moments, the lucky ones

with the angry ones, the sorrowful ones,

all shot through with perpetual pain.

as your toes, then your legs, torso, arms

become numb, cold, deathly

trying to keep pace with your emotions

and the cold starts creeping up your neck, your spine.

 

Those are instants where

I could be finally happy, again

(What is happiness? I laugh and crack jokes, but I forgot)

as I could smile, again

truly, openly

without anyone ready to criticize or laugh

because I’d be exploring,

exploring the unknown, the unknowable.

 

The world would go on

but the people won’t be the same.

 

My friends, which I can count on one hand,

will be changed forever

but will soon forget, going off

for more school or to work;

my father will continue living,

my mother will blame someone else

anyone but herself

and my brother might still propose,

might not:

everyone around me

will be different.

 

Maybe I could heal,

pull myself out of this quicksand

but I do not want to,

I'm already too far gone.

Look at all the change I’d cause!

All I can hope for

is that it’d be

a beneficial alteration.

 

The best way to change the world’s existence

is to end

mine.

https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/comments/67ak52/sickness/dgox5s7/?utm_content=permalink&utm_medium=front&utm_source=reddit&utm_name=OCPoetry https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/comments/679enx/the_guitarist_and_violinist/dgoxbu6/