I delay the onset of the hurt
you unintentionally caused,
creating meaningless distractions
until I can no longer focus.
I welcome numbness,
creating it purposely
to repress the flood of pain.
But it's inevitable.
And didn't we already discuss
how pain and resistance
only perpetuates suffering?
I fall into bed confused,
wondering why I can't feel proud
of a productive day.
Isn't this what you wanted for me,
proof I'm engaging in the work?
If you had offered another chance,
I would have realized what was at stake.
I never fail to feel baffled
by the size of the world outside my mind.
Each interaction I witness
feels curious then cruel then foreign.
Just like the concept of a happy life,
your ultimate goal for me.
Even if the worker bees are happy
and convince themselves of a purpose,
and I try my best to follow their lead,
how do I not feel like my life is a lie?
[A separate entity]
[A path to nowhere]
The awareness makes me ill.
Life is what you make of it, after all.
And how can I have faith
when faith is but an illusion?
I try to send a message to my body
- an assurance of safety -
as I hug my child self,
but the dread still tucks me in
and renews its vow at dawn.
Its vow to never ease up.
I'll fall asleep somehow,
wishing there were words to assuage my worries,
wishing you were the constant in my life,
wishing your hope in me could have cured it all.