Weeks flashing by me like orange street lights, out of a car window as it speeds down the motorway in the dark,
Days spent alone blurring into each other, the brittle conversations left on the cliffs of ‘ok’ fading away- into the air
Shifting patterns of consciousness draw out the night and shorten the days, waking up at 3pm and feeling like you’ve failed before you have even gotten dressed,
Haunting yourself; a lifeless, vapid smoke drifting through walls and through time.
Feeling lost in the heavy fog of your own mind, clarity comes in short bursts and leaves copper notes of disappointment on your tongue.
Washing in sporadic salty waterfalls but never feeling clean, yearning so completely for order but just amassing rooms thigh-deep in dust and clutter,
Trying to hold on to people like sand falling through my hands.
Watering my pillow every night but knowing that it will never grow,
Praying to be someone else until my throat is red-raw from screaming- trying to fit into a mould that I was never meant to squeeze my bones into
Bullet points of imperfections hanging on my wall impale me leaving scars and bruises,
Why do I do this to myself?