‎Sunday, ‎November ‎15, ‎2015, ‏‎7:54:43 PM

I say that I’m doing fine. because I’m not in pain. I say that things are good because I no longer
find myself crippled over and heaving and struggling for meaning because
of that sense of some invisible clock ticking and my time slowly running out.
but I haven’t gone running in over a week. I haven’t been proud of my art in months. I’ve barely written anything.
I don’t lie down for hours to feel existence dip to cradle me.
but I am angry, and when I lie down to take naps I can’t wake up for 4 hours, and the only reason I do wake up is because
I am overcome by a wave of intense anger and I can’t even control my own body, so
I pound the wall with my fist until my parents yell at me
and I’m finally awake and resenting my inability to heed an alarm.
I don’t know if this is prose or poetry and I know it’s fucking shitty, but all I want to do
is make something beautiful and feel the way I used to, like I’m gifted
with the Midas touch of creativity.
I am not anxious. I am not depressed. I have not had any panic attacks. I am doing fine.
but I’m bland. everything is bland.
I want to start boxing so I can beat the shit out of things and ignore whatever has been itching
at the base of my mind
telling me to get off my fucking ass.
I want to be homeless. I want to go camping for a week. I want to smoke until it doesn’t throw me out of reality.
I want to fall down drunk. I want to have sex. I want to fucking fall apart. because that’s when I make things.
I do meaningful things only when they’re the last thing I should be doing. I live off of anxiety. I get off on pain.
I write poetry about how my soul is hanging off my body but I secretly love it because it gives me something
to say about myself.
I am so fucking selfish. I am whining because I have nothing to whine about. my life is great. I am normal. I don’t
want
to be normal.

simultaneously empowered and helpless

I hope you’ve never felt

sadness like a tube shoved

down your throat and through your insides that

inflates with attention

shoves your organs aside to

make room for itself, to

make room for its emptiness

I hope you’ve never had

your earlobes strung to your baby toes

your spine frozen and collapsed

your vision inside out, black, speckled, and

white noise growing between your ribs

I hope you’ve never wanted

to shred your throat

to pound your limbs until your bones were jelly

to mangle yourself and reach inside your chest

squeeze your heart until it oozes out

between your fingers