I’m sick of being sick. I’m tired of feeling like I’m living a dream that’s so warped and twisted I can’t tell its real until I’m in pain. I’m sick of being so worried about myself that I can’t hear what you’re saying. My brain takes so long to connect what you’re saying with what you mean, the conversation has already moved on my the time I’ve come up with something witty or relevant to the conversation, then I’m left trying to catch up again.
I’m scared that I won’t wake up. I’m scared that this is all a dream. I’m terrified that this numbness will morph into something untameable, something darker. Something that’ll rip and claw at my insides until someone notices the blankness in my eyes and the flatline.
I’m disappointed when I wake up that the roof hasn’t caved in yet, like a mirror, damaged beyond repair. I’m annoyed that nobody notices. I thought I meant more than that to them. I’m annoyed my body won’t stop shaking, but I need the caffeine to keep me up. Even after I’ve just slept 12 hours. I’m irritated by everyone, but I’m dangerous on my own. I’ve seen what I can do to my body, and I’m scared of what more time alone means.
I’m scared that I’ve come to the point where I don’t care anymore; that I just can’t. Can’t cry. Can’t feel. Can’t… keep in touch with reality. Can’t feel the moisture in my eyes.
No amount of sleep could keep this tiredness at bay.