I’m sick but you don’t see it.
I’ m sick beyond what you believe.
Because I hide, because I have to do so in order to survive this
stigma-ridden society. Because I can’t trust strangers no matter how sweet, because I’ve been broken in the past.
I’m sick but nobody knows just how many levels I’m at within the realm of Fucked-Up.
I’m sick and like to think I’m recovering although deep down I know it’s too late to save this sad story from a bad ending.
At twenty-something I am the remains of a life not yet lived, existing on survival mode, waiting for time to pass
in this, my expanding glass prison .
I’m sick and no
amount of self awareness or discovery can undo it.
I’m sick and falling after so many mixed manic days, exhaustion and anxiety hitting me and dragging me underwater
I’m a sick girl wearing a band-aid over the madness
that can’t be contained in my brain.
I say I’ll be ok and you believe for it is easier than looking closely at what your eyes see.