my soul still resides here, lingering far beyond the edge of pages:
my body, laced with sin, exhaustion clinging, somatic discharge,
my mind, hazy from fumes, drowning deeper in sorrowful hole,
calcium architecture, shrapnel patchworking, steel creations.
I’ve always been discarded, thrown away, throwing away life,
it’s different than suicidality, it’s the ceasing of connection.
I no longer deem feeling to be useful, only byproduct:
existing only in thin slices, isolation & sleep deprivation.
I’m still writing, every single day, there’s so much more,
but I lack direction, art as career losing priority here…
my identity, fracturing as I call hotlines in episodes,
attempting to keep myself & others safe from myself;
knowing the razor is far too sharply poised by betrayal.
the apathy of being is pulling me down into illness daily,
yet I continue to call therapists & to call these helplines,
stoic in the face of genuine illness, I’m praying for help,
not even support, genuine lithium lobotomies for me.
I’m too far gone, I’ve seen too much, but I’m not suicidal;
I want to live, to grow old with my partner, to hobby write,
but the visions won’t stop, the screams are so loud again…
it’s the residue of trauma beyond comprehension, literally.
the walls won’t stop closing in, torturous cycles of instability;
eating me alive as I continue to regurgitate myself each day.
