trigger warning: self-harm
and i’m sure you don’t want to talk to me. and i’m sure you don’t want to see me. and i’m sure you fucking hate being anywhere near me. and the words flow out of me way too quickly. and it all just feels… so… heavy. and so don’t breathe. and so lock yourself in the dark, and the news hits like a bomb, and i am the city. i am always the city. i am always the arm reaching out from the abyss, trying my best to fight the urge to just pull you into this emptiness, because god does it get lonely. and the more you say the faster the state of my mental health degrades, and the more i’ll pretend to be falling apart and redefine it as okay. and i’m sure i deserve this, even though i don’t deserve this. and scissors will hit the skin, and the sharp numbness will finally set in. and i’ll hide my face. and i’ll pretend i don’t exist. because it’s just poetry. it’s not that good. no one really knows about me. and what is this ever going to lead to, in the end? really.
it’s been a really bad month in terms of anxiety. sometimes i can’t even breathe walking down a hallway. i don’t recognize this person i’m turning into.
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