Sheets hemmed with, black, poetry from my fractured mental state,
placed in silk ribbon ties.
Illustrating fabric dreams, they're etching their message within the walls my heart as I
sleep in 'the safest place to be' when your spirits broken.
I stir at the early hours of the morning as I wake,
trying to catch my breath,
with the growing agony of pins and needles perforating my lungs with every breath I take.
(It - hurts - to -breathe - here)
here with the first draft of self pity& self hate, sketched onto my skeletal spine so now
I'm completely crippled (figuratively speaking),
emaciated with the lack of sunlight that reaches me down here.
I place all of my issues beneath these sheets and enfold myself within them,
just lay here, broken, in my bed, so sweetly, coated in thick swelling denial.
Throbbing.
Aching.
It's consuming me.
And I'm waiting for the world to collapse in on itself and bury me with it.
Don't try to fight this - your efforts are too little.
Don't try to tell yourself you're worth more than this - you're nothing.
And nothing seems worth it
when you're incarcerated within the hands of depression,
cradle your tender heart within the arms of slumber and sleep this all away!
