An exercise in futility.
Waking each morning to a black pit, embittered with my youth and adolescence, reeking with the stench of failure and abuse. Tense, electricity heavy enough to walk upon and lift me up until I press against the ceiling, screaming and scratching at it with bloody hands until I collapse.
Unable to be free, to escape to the heavens and drift away, basking in starlight and dreams. Wading through torrents of illusions and false realities (anxietygrowing,growing,ican'tstopthismadness,ican'tstopmyself...ohgodpleasestopme) that crash over me like waves over a false cliffside, rocky in its own stale, gray tone.
Screaming, running in faded circles that cannot leave me, wringing my hands in displeasure as the world trembles around me.
(please,saveme,saveme...breakthepatternsthaticannotseemtoovercome)
Why can't I end this, the insanity, the depression? The dark circles around my eyes that demand I lay down in the safety of my blankets one more time, holding comfort to me as close as I can, drifting away into little-death. Blood red roses... blood red tears. I cannot help but be who I am; do you accept me as such? Or are you simply one more point on the endless line of rejection and pain?