?

I don’t have a title for this one. I’ve hidden myself so well that I am lost. And I am scared. That I am not enough for life. That I wasn’t built for it. That everyone is lying to me. That everything I think I know is wrong. But more than that, I’m terrified. That life is not enough for me. That I’ll do what I’m supposed to do, I’ll live the way I’m supposed to live. And I still won’t be happy. I lie in bed and kill myself slowly, passively, lovingly. And I drown out the questions I have with whatever I can because they all come tinted with fear. So I am scared and I am lost and I am sad. And finally I let myself ask one question because this one is instead tinted with anticipation. When will I finally wake up and say that this is fucking enough? I thought that I had already hit so many bottoms of so many rocks but evidently I can go lower. I look at my mess of a room and just lay in it. I look at the list of things to do and just stare. I play my little games because I can know all. And I don’t think about time. And I don’t think about me. Poetry is easier to write when constrained. And so I think that living is not for me.

There is no sense of self here. There is no sense of self that I am comfortable with accepting. It really should all be so simple.