Twenty-three feels just as lonely as sixteen. Probably as lonely as the thirty, forty-two and seventy year olds that pass me by throughout the day as loneliness ceases to discriminate...Two hours till the clock strikes one more year off of my life and another year I'm drowning. The water inside me is imploding, I'm trying to unplug my brain to allow the emotions to wash out but somehow the drain seems stuck.
I ty to let it bleed through my eyes bust as much as I feel the desire to cry nothing comes out. The screams in my head cannot find any escape. I dream of release and I beg for the end. I wrote a couple weeks I wanted to die because I was haunted by the idea of the limits we’re attached to in life and this week I’m empty and that hole is limitless.
Tell me, how do you find release? Smoke in your chest, reviving you with every second you’re sitting with cloudy lungs, or bleaching your pink insides with burning liquids.Just don’t forget your delicately detailed painted smile, it’s the best way to go I promise. Then come home and wash it off, just to slip back into character when the FaceTime calls come in. “HEY HEY! what’s going on?” You “happily” answer, because why risk to hear the words- “are you good?” “you sound depressed.”I sit here once again as my brain bangs the words against my fragile skull- “I’m not okay, i'm not okay , i'm not okay.”
You: “Hey are you good?”
Me: yeah, always.