when they talked about feeling helpless, i didn’t know this was what they meant

i know, all right? know i’m supposed to be staying positive, because my therapist told me to. know i have so many better things to do than lying on a freshly made bed, tearing myself to pieces, until… i don’t know who wins.

but when they talked about feeling helpless, i didn’t know this was what they meant.

feeling the pain like your own. watching the notifications pile up one after the next on your phone. spiraling down, down, down; the same old place you always go. and you tell yourself it won’t happen again… but you don’t mean it, though.

because this feeling? this is all you’ve ever known.

so you sit on the couch for days on end. making little origami poems, with your shaking doll hands. wondering what it feels like to die, but… only in a vague sort of sense.

and i try to stay strong. try to hold on. but i don’t know how much longer i can do this…

because some days, i wake up drowning. my stone cold body, slowly being eaten by the abyss.

I don’t really remember exactly when I wrote this poem–only that I was having a lot of trouble coping with quarantine at the time. I’ve probably said this before, but I’ll say it again–I have a lot of trouble coping with control, in a lot of different facets of my life. Seeing people I love suffer, and knowing I can’t help them, can’t do anything for them at all… well, it’s a special kind of torture. Back when I wrote this, a friend was going through a rough time, and I guess this was the only way I knew how to talk myself out of this panicked anxiety-frenzy I worked myself into–making my best attempt to write it out.

Lots of love,


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