self-help

i never saw myself becoming the self-help book kind of person, but i guess, here i am. sitting on the floor of the library, shitty carpet scratching at my knees, reading books intended for women fifteen years older than me. and what does it mean, if i’m burning out already? if i can’t stop thinking, can’t stop running, until the damage is done, and it’s too late to do anything?

so i’ll take notes from another broken lady on what i’m supposed to do. and it might not work, but i’ll still give them half an effort, because i guess i’m just that desperate these days.

but no matter how many hinges i screw back in, or holes in the wall i patch over and paint above, i’ll still find scratches down my arms, and scabs on my forehead. still split my brain into sides, like this is a battle, and squeeze in denial like the perfect rhyme.

because it’s seven am, and already, i can see a thousand catastrophes unfolding in my mind. but they’re cold to the touch, oh-so-far-away. i’m getting tired of scrolling past armageddon every day, and counting down the seconds. because i know the end is near.

i just need some sleep. need to get off my phone and actually give myself a chance to process everything. and in the morning, i still won’t know what i’m doing. so maybe i’ll read another book, or beg google to help me. but they just shrug it off, tell me to listen to my heart.

but don’t you get it? if i do what i want to, that’s where everything goes to shit. where the lego-house future starts to crumble before my eyes, and i don’t know where i fit, and so i cancel my appointment, and lie in bed staring at the ceiling all afternoon.

my heart is rather inconvenient.

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