i fall so hard

clawing my way up the walls of the dried-up well again.
fingers bleeding. that's okay. makes it real.
stuck in a sort of state of mental stillness in a time
where that kind of thing is no good
but hey.
nights not slept. that's okay.
some days, most days, are better through a haze.

where am i? where was i?
always broken at the wrong time
i find myself sitting in dewy grass in the moonlight
sweating and crying, and nothing feels real.
i find myself in places where we went together
find myself admiring rusty locks and boarded-up windows
grey skies and muddy footprints
motorways.

i find myself leaning against the window
and wondering, what if it broke under my weight
what if i lost my balance and fell ten stories down
and what then

i'll just sit here and breathe for now.
waiting for someone
something
whatever
to distract me.

relapse

the way you go from crying
because it doesnt hurt enough
to crying
because you can't stand the pain

wine and emotions

ignorance is bliss
pretending is basically an alternate heaven on earth
imagining things makes everything better
and refusing to see them paints rainbows on the insides of your eyelids
squeezed
shut
from the world

as long as i don't think about this it's not real
and therefore has nothing
to do
with me

i don't care about you
i don't
that's what i dedicate my waking hours to
i don't think about you
never do

seeing you makes my heart grow wild in my chest
traps my breath in a bell jar
and i lean against a wall to think about how i
don't
care
about you

miss too many people, regret too many things

This is where I come these days when I feel lost and alone and hopeless, when there's something in my throat that won't budge, even the wine won't wash it away. This is where I come when my hands start sweating and my grip starts slipping and I know I won't last much longer but there is no crash mat because there are no crash mats or chalk bags in life, just sweaty fingers and rocky terrain and that's scary.

This isn't a cure for my shivering scared weak useless mind. Nothing ever is. Not climbing up a wall or writing down the words that come to mind or a playlist made of all the saddest songs I know. Not pining after anyone. Not this glass of wine that I should not be drinking now. That is so close to turning into a bottle instead.

Why do I find it so hard to care?

I didn't answer.

I miss things I never had. Do people do that, or is that why I'm so wounded all the time? Is that why I find it so hard to move forwards, because I can't find myself in the now? I miss things I never had, and I dream them in detail and beat myself up for not letting them happen. Do people do that?

Sucks, anyway. I don't know why I'm sad this time. Even my words seem a bit disjointed. Don't they always. I don't know what I am doing. Can't relate to this person I seem to be. I was a happy child. How did I grow to be an adult like this, and will I ever be any better?

and that's when i hope i could shut up, silence the pessimist, just be your friend