Anxiety · Creative Writing · Depression · Free Write · Poetry · Self-harm · Writing

What is this?

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. 

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