High Heart Rate

There are stories about monsters under the bed but all the horrors I find in my own mind.

I need to breathe.

It sounds like distant screams coming towards me. I no longer sleep and only close my eyes briefly for the pleasure of lubricating them - and my astigmatism probably increased in degree as a result of the anguish dawns thinking about a future that may not even exist.

I have unlearned how to breathe.

When I realize I'm already contracting myself back into the same fucking chasm. The anxious world does not serve me but it is the only one I know. There is a rope around my neck but there is no fall, because what feeds such horror is exactly that anguish that does not end; it is this disability of not being able to reach to untie the knot.

My eyes close slowly and I feel relief.

But it is not the end.

It's just a break. The rope is still there even though I don't feel it pulling me for a few hours.

You still have to pull me again.

I became anxious for my own anxiety.

And in its light breaks there is still the depression to occupy the space.

Disorders that swallow and clump together - disorders that hang me and kill me inside.