I’m sick of trying to be strong.
I feel so weak, so light.
Not the lightness one would feel in a state of joy,
It’s the weightlessness one would feel as if they are going to fall to shambles.
Emotionally, spiritually, and mentally
I become subject to my mind, so scarred.
I become captive to the oppressive motions of the pen, digging into my skin, seeking a vein, any vein.
I want you to know I’m dying.
I once gave you the impression I had life.
The truth is I’m dying.
This new strength I found from adapting could not help me.
I’m sick of just having to be strong,
Just forcing myself to seize the day,
I’m dying.
Turn around, look into my eyes and say in your humble tone
“The door is always open.”
Say it, say it now.
Because it feels like the door is closing and I’m left in the darkness.
