1/31/21 - 12:02 AM

Nothing is working.

None of my distractions are working.

None of my obsessions are
keeping the thoughts away.

Tonight feels quieter than usual.
Emptier, too.

I feel untethered,
but there's also a weight on my chest.

Nothing is working.
Nothing feels right.

There's a tingling,
a rustling,
permeating
under my skin.

My chest feels remarkably empty,
my mind is pretending to be,
and my heart feels heavy.

I think my brain wants me to engage this feeling, I think it wants me to follow it.

For some reason it feels like a trap.

Like at the end of the string of thoughts,
the pitter-patter under my skin only worsens,
the hole in my chest only deepens,
the load in my heart only gets heavier,

it feels like a trap.

And none of my distractions are working.
The stories aren't pulling me away,
the music won't drown it out.

There's just the rumbling under my skin,
the blank facade of my mind,
the chasm in my chest,
and the mass in my heart,
all keeping me company,
never letting me forget their
subtlety consuming presence.

My hands don't feel right.
My legs don't feel like my own.
My body feels like it wants to shake.

Shake me away, reject its host.

It doesn't feel right,
and nothing is working.

Sleep feels miles away,
and nothing is working.

There's just
the trembling,
the vacancy,
the burden,
and the lie.

I feel like I'm on a precipice,
my toes clawing the cliff,
and I'm about to either
fly
or
fall.

Either way, won't tonight be just as quiet?