I am sick of being sick of myself.
Sick of feeling like the only child alive
with crippling sickening emotions and a fear
of mirrors and bathrooms and public places.
I am sick of wanted to trade faces with strangers who scare me.
Why is everything so scary?
I am sick of hiding in the back of the library
behind piles of books I haven’t read yet.
I’m sick good debt vs. bad debt,
weighing my chances of future misery against kids who don’t really care for me.
I’m sick of being judged, and judging.
Trapped in a circle of dysfunction
like, “is this living?”
I’m sick of giving so much of myself
to my body and my own mental health
and to people who don’t listen
when I’m screaming.
I am sick of screaming
and of having to scream just to be heard
over the endless roar of nothing.
Of loving vs. hating.
I am sick of loving and hating in the same breath
sick of breathing and evading death
sick of needing sleep and friendship and money
just like all the stupid people around me.
I am sick of music and art and poetry
and having to bleed, bleed, bleed.
Knock these feelings out from under me.
I am so sick of feeling and of being this way
of eventual decay and the fact
that what I am saying
has all been said a million times by pretty boys with bigger minds than mine.
I am sick of feeling like a shrinking mind
in a swelling body.
I am sick of feeling sick of everything.