I find other things to make me happy. I invest all my time and effort into them. Because I can’t make myself happy.
I can feel it on it’s hind legs, waiting to spring and envelop me. But keep feeding it. Feed it until it’s strong as an oxe, and try to drown it. I don’t think an oxe can drown. It drowns you. Is it me? Is it a phase? How can you stand above me? Convenience is in play, I know it is. Fuck you. Don’t act like you didn’t feed this too. “I’m sorry if you’ve ever under the impression that this is okay.” Fuck. You. I’m silent. This is something you will have to deal with on your own.
Both of you have it all figured out. Did you ever stop and take the time to reflect, and think maybe, just fucking maybe, this is because of what I face? You don’t believe me. No one does. No one should. Why do I do this.
It looms, I feel like it has wings. It stretches so far, past to future, it’s big ugly head staring me in the face. Can I do this?
I can feel it dangling over me, almost teasing me. It’s surfacing in my soul. It smiles, says hello again. But I have nothing to make it go away. You’ve taken it from me. I have nothing to pacify it. I don’t want to look at this mirror image. Is it me? Is this something inside of me? Or is this outside of the cage.
I’m almost free.
Will that be the end of it? I’m scared of myself.