Will my body fail me, and when?
I want to run, but my back breaks.
I want to sing, my throat swells.
I want to imagine a life where I can feel untethered by my own body, but I am bed-bound, exhausted beyond belief.
I look okay to you.
I look pretty in my adorned cage.
Will someone learn to love me before I crumble down completely?
Will they leave me when they do?
Will my pain be my only true companion in this life? Can I shake it from me if its teeth are already sunken into me? I can feel them nearing the bone.
My fear of dying—as if it wouldn’t free me.
God, I am a contradiction.
God, I am a dichotomous, fictitious being, dying to believe in something beyond myself, to hold onto hope for something beautiful to save me from the darkness of my life, of my mind, of this world.
God I don’t believe in, but your name is a curse that falls from my mouth when I speak without second thought.
I can only believe in me. I have no strength to reach outwards.
We’re out of options. We’re out of ideas. We’re not sure what’s going on.
We’re out of options. We’re out of ideas. We’re not sure what’s going on.
If I rub my eyes hard enough, for long enough, will it erase some piece of reality?
If I hide behind someone or something, will it make me part of something else—make me seem like part of more than the world I’ve built inside to stilt up my own aching self, to keep me moving forward towards more inevitabilities?
DoubleSpeak 