I am tired. Down to the marrow of my bones, the pulse of my blood, the breath I drag through this heavy chest. So tired of the trembling hands that refuse to find stillness, of the weight that presses, relentless. Of the voices- dozens of them. All my own. Screaming. Filling the hollow spaces of my mind day and night without mercy. I crave the quiet.
My mind aches for anything, any cure to sedate this restless body, to lull the chaos into calm. Sleep calls to me, sweet and numbing, the only refuge where my thoughts cannot find me.
But the sadness has returned, a shadow I thought I'd left behind, its claws tangled in the threads of my soul. Anxiety coils tight in my ribs; self loathing whispers in the cracks. These ghosts are old, familiar- and yet, they crash against me as if for the first time, dragging me under.
These feelings- ancient hauntings I once thought I outran- have risen from the dead to swallow me whole. My body cries for relief, for escapism, for silence, for peace. But I have no answers left. Every path will circle back to this eventually.
YOU ARE READING
This Is Not for You (But Read It Anyway)
PoetryI didn't write this for you. I wrote it because I had to - in the middle of the night, on the back of receipts, in margins and spiral notebooks. These are the pieces of me that never asked to be shared. But here they are anyway. This book is made of...
