in my head, it’s fine. in my head i come home. i have some tea, i get into a comfy sweater; maybe watch a movie. and it’s safe, and warm, and easy.
in my head, i don’t write until my fingers bleed, don’t break down and lock the door. in my head, i work hard, and i shake the right hands, and i don’t cry about it, not anymore.
or look back on the past with rose-tinted glasses, wishing i could go back to when i could sleep until time ends, and burn my bones like candles, because i read online it’s good for you.
in my head, the years go by like clockwork. in my head, it’s healthy and responsible, not desperate and bloody, as i cling to dollar bills like they’re all i have left, and maybe they are. maybe all i am is money.
a torn-up fog, a roaming mist. yellow pill bottles, and doctor’s offices. and i’ll do whatever it takes to feel better, but nothing seems to do the trick. and i’m sorry, for being melodramatic, i just feel like i’m burning sometimes.
like my ribcage will be the pyre, and at 1am, the symphony will scream in a beautiful madness, and i’ll still feel like shit. but as time goes on, i guess i’ve just gotten pretty good at distancing myself from it, honestly.