i was born a long time ago, near the start of this new century. in relation to others it is not such a long time, but these days have dragged on and on.
the place i live cannot be called a home. it is a house. the house itself is wonderful. the man inside it makes it hell.
i do not like the smell of whiskey and cigarettes the first thing in the morning. i do not like the smell of razor blades and blood in the middle of the night.
the psychiatrists cannot fix me and the therapists cannot even help. nothing but sleep calms my inner storm.
the medication is expensive and useless.
ambulances and hospital stays are proven to be ineffective in my case.
i am a waste. i am an attention whore. i am ill and i am twisted.
i love the animals and i love my mother and siblings. i love sunsets and i love autumn. i love holding his hand and i love reading poetry.
i cannot say i have lived a full life.
i have never been to a school dance and i have never learned to drive. i have never seen another country. i have yet to graduate high school and i have yet to see my best friend get married.
i have not found my happiness.
similarly, i have not found a reason to go on.
none of these things i have to look forward to are enough to keep me tethered to this body or this earth.
i wish for peace.