This isn’t happening.
This isn’t real.
I’m not here.
(Cue heaving breathing)
This feeling is horrifying, every morning it’s a dance with the Devil.
But I suppose I will have to adapt.
I am becoming unwilling complacent not knowing if I exist.
I’m waiting for mortality to prove itself to be truthful, or not.
I check the door a hundred times, every time before I go.
It’s an excuse for me to stay inside. I refuse to leave.
Years pass and still no change. I just want to turn it off.
This is all so tiring.
There is a constant, lingering void,
a lack of answers from a lifetime of painful questions.
I start to doubt myself, let alone the old and new testaments.
I wait patiently to see if life lessons from grandma, dad, and my fourth-grade
religion teacher will come true as promised.
I over indulge myself with false emotions to the non-existing world in which I live in.
Irrational and irrelevant,
I’m wrapped up in life’s facade, completely confused and lost,
but I do enjoy the abnormality in which doctors casts me as.
I romance the idea that one day I could truly be happy.
I know that I am only panicking.
This is only a terrible state of mind that I’m trapped in.
But for now, I suppose, I’ll enjoy my sadness.
I’ll seduce my anxiety because although debilitating, it reminds me that I’m alive.
I will suffer silently in my solitude. It’s savage, but it saves.
And just to play it safe, in case that I am not here with all of you,
I will continue to check the door a hundred times, every time before I go.