i’m so tired of writing about this, and putting it on you. tired of begging for help, when the only person on earth who can save me is right here already. she stares back at me in the mirror, indifferent and cold. i only hate her half the time, which is good—right? i hope so.
that means i’m getting better, that means i’m making progress. that means i can map my mind out like a mountain, and slap a deadline on happiness. distance myself from my fear, and add one more thing to my to-do list.
try my best to ignore it, and drag my toes. until your pretty little pictures replace everything i know. because i just don’t want to be in my head right now, you understand? i don’t want to answer your emails, i don’t want to make my bed. and i don’t want call a friend, but i don’t want to be alone.
so fine. maybe i was wrong, maybe it’s not a mountain. maybe it’s a broken keyboard or a cracked computer chip. maybe it’s one of those waterslides, at the pool, except there’s no out or in.
give me a standardized test, or a war to end all others–something i could win.
and when the battle’s over—when my hands are stained with red—would you take me home? would you draw me a map, and watch my back? would you cradle my sun-bleached bones?