Every day begins by
cursing the fact
that you’ve lived to breathe
another day
They call this moment
the present like
some sort of sick joke?
In what world is
sobbing yourself to sleep
so often that the skin
on your eyelids
is perpetually raw
a gift?
The only comfort is the
solace of sheets you
wrap yourself in,
nuzzled away from all
that is real
that is painful
that is this
miserable thing they call existence –
And even if you wanted to leave
the security of blankets
you can’t.
There is a weight in your
chest, heavy enough to crush
an elephant, squash a killer
whale or keep one miserable girl
pinned to her pathetic mattress
Those white coat wielding bastards
don’t give a damn that
you feel trapped
in a body that doesn’t fit –
Because if they did,
would they really blame you
for trying to hack your way out?
Instead you’re snubbed with a pathetic
bottle of pills,
that promise to bloom happy thoughts
inside of your mind
Only instead of two,
you swallow every last little seed,
water them with a bottle of cheap vodka
But of course,
you fail at that too.
They call you crazy,
chain you to a bed
force you into a gown
white with surrender –
As if anchoring you to this
miserable world is
a sane choice.
If only they could comprehend
what it feels like to have
your bones ache
with agony over the
thought of prolonged existence -
Then would they really blame you,
for trying to escape?