I stare at the ceiling and try to come up with sentences that aren’t depressing.
My fingers ooze misery, I can’t help what I write.
I stare at the mirror and think of you.
I think of all the words I need to send your way.
It’s never like the books, it’s never like the movies.
It’s always just you, your thoughts and stories.
Not everyone hides things as well as you do.
So you need to believe whatever they tell you.
You’re the only one that has a wall.
You’re the only one with a mountain of pride and pretense.
You’re burning alone, and wasting your fire.
You’re the only one fighting an invisible internal battle.
You forgot what it was like to live without a lump in your throat.
It’s depressing and it’s your fault.
It’s your fault, you care.
The universe would be better off without your constant wondering.
You always go through these periods of excess giving.
You give until you have nothing left to give.
Until you see the emptiness of what you have.
Only then you stop giving.
You stop giving and barbwire yourself.
How many times will you have to go through this?
When will you learn?
What caused you to be so coiled?
I’m giving up on you.