The grass is burnt

I’ve had enough emotional turmoil to last me quite awhile. There’s a reason they call it vacation, right? God, I thought there was. I heard hell is hot, and there’s endless torture. I’m in so much pain I almost can’t bear to stand. Sitting is only a shade less on the agony scale. Let us hope it’s all just a coincidence. 

I spent two hours at the gym, then went out again. Moving was like this test of will. Could I get out the door, around the corner? It’s like someone is stabbing me in the spine, endlessly, relentlessly, and no matter how many pills I swallow, it isn’t dulled. I knew I did something to it yesterday, on top of what was already wrong. But I couldn’t bear to be here anymore, in this house, in this haze of ill-concealed misery. I’d rather walk in the hundred degree weather for over an hour, than listen to anymore. 

I know I need to be here, but that doesn’t make it any simpler. It doesn’t make me want to escape any less. 

I wonder at times, if I push hard enough, make myself do enough, will I believe? Will there ever be a moment where I can look back at myself and not feel like it was always too little, never enough, that I wasted my own time? 

I think back about how I was there and the opportunity was there, and I didn’t take it. That phone call never went through. Shouldn’t that have killed me then? Shouldn’t the realization that no one was ever going to save me, have ended me right then and there?

But it didn’t. Maybe that’s what makes me different. 


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