I am bad.
I must be bad.
That’s what the words on the pages told me.
I have seen it.
The others and they are crazy.
So am I.
All this time was just called anxiety.
But it always felt worse…so much worse then others could understand.
I can not find the words.
I choke on the mumbling and every sentence comes up short.
“I’m not an angry person” I think?
What do I even know?
Perhaps nothing was ever real.
Nobody wants me.
Nobody wants this kind of broken.
Pieces of broken shells and scattered notes throughout.
I tried to write you a song, a sonnet to express this love.
I feel everything too deeply so I watch you make a cut.
My hands are numb like my heart.
Except I still see the crumbs scattered at beneath the top.
I dig down in.
Reaching for your loss.
Please don’t leave me.
Please don’t stop.