There's a pain that is unique to you yet shared with many,

A wound inflicted that'll never heal, no matter what they say about time.

It can be hidden, can be forgotten, can be left to drift in nothing,

But it cannot be healed.

I ripped it open again the other day, bathed in the infected froth that burst from it.

It has helped me realize a lie I had told myself.

"I'll be alone, I don't want anyone else."

Life, that lover of irony, heard that lie for what it was and intervened,

It made a truth out of the lie and now I lament knowing that after being abandoned by those that should always be there, I'll have no one to hold this shattered soul of mine.

No one to tell me it's going to be okay.

There's a video around of a man telling his ma, whatever women want he doesn't have it. That is me, and he is I. I can't swagger and wax poetic or show the muscles under the flab. They have seen what I am and been left wanting, so have moved on.

I'm tired of hurting, but I'm more tired hoping, secretly, quietly, that someone will save this thing I have become.

It's this feeling that leads to that golden seven out of ten, but then who cares right.

In the end this all just a cry for attention from another entitled biggoted misongynist;

Last night I felt I might belong.

Life pulled me in and held me strong.

I knew that I’d at once regained

All love I’d ever felt or feigned...

But then life scoffed and let it die;

That spark rekindled in my eye.

The soup is hot. The shirt is stained.

Time is frittered, blithely pained.

Schopenhauer got it right,

Implying life is best a plight.

Love’s vast yearning proudly lingers,

Sticking ice to burning fingers.

Land is cracked where once it rained...

But now my metaphors are strained.

In any case, I’m quite alright.

And now I’ll let you go. Goodnight!

I enjoy my morning coffee

with the voices in my head

telling me things I don't even believe

over toast and eggs

that I'm the walking dead

rotten flesh for a head

one of the herd

limping along and

sucking the life out of those I love

and they are LOUD LOUD L O U D

I can't shut them up

I offer the voices some more food

but they'd rather starve instead

only eating up what little

self-respect I have left

alive, I suppose -- in a way

it's like I've been reaching

for something on the

top shelf,

and the floor bottoms out

before I can jump to

grab it. but at least I've been

catching myself,

just before I trip and fall,

hands scraping against pavement

but no real harm is done. alive,

fingers constantly toying

with the knot of feelings in

my chest. yarn, rainbow, all

tangled and tied.

alive. now, the

weather feels less like a gasp and

more like a slow exhale.

my breath, warm and cloudy

and grey, proves the one thing

I need, which is that

I'm alive

Inadequate. It sums up today, yesterday and the day before. Less than what I should be and less than what I deserve or want to be.

It's a simple word. Something that someone who understands the meaning or has any recollection of how it feels like.

Some days it is not as bad. Some days you can push that emotion into the farthest depths and forget for even a second, a moment, that maybe you aren't.

But that good old feeling will come washing back over you very quickly as you begin again. A new day, a new opportunity to feel.

If I was given once chance or opportunity to wash it away. Maybe a bath bomb that pulls away all your bad feelings like Epsom salt to a sore back. Maybe, if there was that cure then I would be not just first in line, I would be pushing on the door as hard as a prospective bride at a sample sale.

I know that some of it is in my head. But that is not all of it. What I feel is what I know and what I have learned and been taught.

I know that not everything I do is that crazy, silly and fully encompassing word...but it is how I feel more than 75% of the time.

How do I change it? Is there a pill or a therapy or what? Please, I beg you to tell me. How do I stop feeling like every single thing I do for anyone else is...in fact....

Inadequate.

I'm terrified to be alone.

I think all the time about my future, and if I'll have someone to share it with.

I get scared that I'm going to be lonely.

That I'll get my degree and work in a nice hospital, but I'll come home to an empty house.

I'll sleep in an empty bed.

I'll never have someone to hold me.

Or share my life with.

It's scary, because I already feel alone and lonely sometimes.

It's this endless cycle of thoughts that I can't break. It's that one fear that you can't escape.

Everyone has one.

And that's mine.

That I'll be alone.

The sunrise is great, beautiful really, but I can’t focus on it. I can’t see it. Not really. I’m too lost, too distracted. I just can’t do it right now, really I can’t. I have been, but I can’t. I laugh, I joke, I talk, but it’s still there. Deep down it hurts. I can’t say anything, I can’t feel anything, I can’t scream loud enough to break the silence. I forget about it sometimes. Sometimes it’s like it was never even there, but the smallest things send it shooting back up. An invisible barrier between me and everyone. It’s a deep, throbbing pain that resides in my chest. It pulses through my lungs, strangling the air until it hurts to breathe. It’s the feeling that I’m shaking and trembling when I’m sitting perfectly still. It’s the cold shiver that holds itself between me and the warmth around me. It’s what I stare after when my friends and family have to pull me back to Earth. Why do they see it?

I hide it. Why? I want them to know. I want them to help. I can’t find the words. The words I do find send me into a panic and I can’t. I get so tired of it, I go to sleep early. I lay down and then… I’m wide awake. Thinking… Regretting. I fabricate and change and write words, but this is the truth. The undeniable, terrifying, towering, truth. It hurts. Tears break through in the same annoying way and I’m glad no one is there to ask, but I want them to know. I want them to feel it, to know, to help, but I’ve never been a brave person. I’ve been fearless in carelessness, but never with words. Words that have to be chosen carefully, precisely. I bury it deeper, try and forget it even more, but the pain pushed down just seems to echo louder. I feel like I’m shaking just writing this. I wonder if someone will see these words or if I’ll delete them later. I don’t want to. I want people to know what it’s really about, but I feel so stupid, so embarrassed about how I feel, because it’s irrelevant to everything. I try to tell them.

I open doors, slowly, cautiously, and they don’t hear me. So I let the doors slam in my face. I’ll try again later, but I know it’ll have the same result. They can’t hear screaming if you keep it in your head. They can’t hear the pain in the silence. They can’t see how you feel. They can’t feel your thoughts. They can’t know without help. I don’t think they’d know even if I told them. It’s something you have to feel. Something they won’t feel. I want to talk to them, but there is never time. What happened to time? Where is time? I want to find it. I want it to be here, in the darkness, in the silence, like an alarm blaring in the dark morning. I want time to be here. I want it to wake me up, out of this nightmare.

I try to cry out, but something stops me. Like drowning. Like every time you open your mouth to scream the water traps the sound and pushes it back down your throat. No. Not water. Not drowning. Quicksand. Sinking. You do nothing and you sink. You struggle and fight and every ounce of strength buries you more. If only there were one person who was standing by you. Someone who could lift you out, after all I’ve done my fair share of lifting. Of saving. I do it, even though I’m still stuck. Even though I help them out and they leave. It’s my fault they leave, I shouldn’t have hid the fact that I was sinking too. That’s how I knew to pull them out. Their fear, sadness, anger, pain, I saw it reflecting in their eyes. I saw deep down. I saw them screaming. I knew the words that would free them.

I made progress. Backwards progress. I chose the wrong words. I chose backwards, fake words and someone saw through them. She knew. She saw my eyes. She saw me drowning… She pulled me out. For a while I was free… But there was an issue. I never made it out of the quicksand. She saw me drowning… She didn’t hear me scream. She’s gone now, I can’t yell loud enough to bring her back. She can’t hear me. They STILL DON’T HEAR ME!!! I scream finally loud enough to make a noise… But it’s too late. I’m sitting at the bottom, underneath miles of sand. Too far away to be heard. I look around. It’s not quicksand. I wish it was. I wish I suffocated. I wish I had drowned, but I was still here, still drawing in seconds, still waiting for time.

I’ve taken a lot of things for granted, but this was by far the worst. For two years I believed it would be forever. I always counted the somedays, one days, tomorrow, and now, as an infinity, but in less than a day it switched to nothing more than yesterdays. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t stop shaking. I still can’t stop trembling. I can’t stop the cold. I can’t stop hoping I’ll get another day, but everyday that chance fades and it hurts more. It hurts. It still hurts. Everyday hurts more. Each feeling feels less. Anger twists around me like a thorny vine. Hurting me and hurting everything that comes towards me equally. It protects me from my sadness, but it just makes it hurt even more. It tries to block my tears from the world, but it doesn’t help, they still slip though, choking me as I fall into an uneasy sleep.

I’m okay. It’s okay. I tell them as I shiver at the invisible cold. I’m happy, I laugh, I make them laugh. They turn away and the smile leaves with them, my eyes burying the pain inside. It’s stupid, I tell myself, there’s no reason to be sad. I smile at my reflection, convincing my eyes to see how happy I am. I see pictures of me and my friends. Smile! I remember them saying it. Telling me to. I remember doing what they said. An empty smile. I stumbled across a photo my mom had taken. She didn’t tell me to smile. It was who was standing next to me. She made me smile. It wasn’t a good picture. The sunset ignited the sides of the image in a way that revealed every little flaw. Her eyes were a pure white from the glare. My hair was a mess. I looked cringy. I hated the way I looked. But I took the photograph anyway. I couldn't stop staring in awe. There was a real genuine smile on my face. I mimicked that smile from there on out. It convinced them. It convinced me. I’m tense. Fake happy hard. Fake it until you make it, right? How long until I make it? I fell asleep, convinced I was making it.

My dream was horrifying. I couldn’t free my gaze from the woman across the room. I knew it was a dream. It was still terrifying. Her hair was drenched, hanging down past her waist like soggy seaweed. Her mouth stretched down impossibly far, her eyes bulged from her head. They called her the Screaming Lady. You could see the desperation in her face as she was locked in a permanent scream that made no sound. She followed me around. Her face. Her name. Trodded around my head all day. I thought about it. I thought about how they say parts of your dreams are trying to subconsciously tell you something. I realized why she was there. She was the part of me I was trying to forget. The part that was still screaming. With that the fake wall fell away. I felt the pain again. I began to drown again. I’m still screaming. Right now I’m screaming. These words seem random and weak and fake, but I. Am. Still. Screaming. I’m running out of breath.

It hurts to scream, but I keep doing it anyway. These words scare me. I know their truth. I feel the pain rise in my chest, throbbing like a second heartbeat. Right beside me. My shadow that I can’t let go of. My friend knows. He asks me why I’m sad. I have no reason to be sad, he says, unlike him. I want to tell him that pain is irrelative. It affects people for different reasons. The same reason hurts people at different levels. It doesn’t mean one is better and one is worse, they just are. I don’t say anything. Just shrug and walk away. Denying. Avoiding. He can talk to others, all of us he talks to understand his pain. They don’t get mine, I stay silent. I want to explain it to them, but I can’t find someone who’s felt the same way. I want to find them. I want to tell them. I want to cry. I want them to comfort me. But I don’t want pity. I don’t want the pretense of understanding. I want them to know! Why can’t anyone know? Why do I have to be so stupid? So childish. I hate it. I hate me. I scream. I don’t think I’ll ever stop.

But it's okay... I'm Okay.

Some times I just can't breathe.

I mean, I actually go through the motions of taking in air. My chest expands like it should but there must be a leak somewhere because the air never gets where it needs to get.

And I find myself opening my mouth and gasping and just begging that rich burst of oxygen to go where I desperately need it to go.

And it hurts so bad. All these unidentifiable things in my head translating into physical pain. It's not a medical condition. It's all in my head, the loneliness, the gaping hole in my chest but it feels so real.

It makes me feel crazy, like I want to zip down my skin and step out of my body and find myself in a different place.

And some times I reach for my phone and actually make the effort of reaching out to someone, seeking help. But then I send my friend a text and he doesn't reply. Then I stare at my phone for so long. Maybe he went to the bathroom. And now he is out. And now he will surely text me back. But he doesn't. And then I check my WhatsApp. Not a single message.

And I feel my chest expand again but no air gets to my lungs. Because there is this void I always hope to fill with meaningless texts, talking over my pain and making jokes that make me look stupid, convincing myself that I'm okay in that by bubble of youthfulness. And it hurts any time I don't even get to do that.

Then I'm back where I started.

I am so damn tired.

People who claim to love their stressful lives -- do they really love it? Living under all that pressure? Like deep water fish, threatening explosion once they're not constantly getting crushed?

Do people just pretend for so long that they believe it?

You're just not cut out for this.

It's not for thin skinned.

It's just life.

First world problems.

You gotta toughen up, kid!

Me? Oh I love it. I love barely seeing my family and leaving before dawn and coming home close to midnight. Dedication, am I right?

It's a brand of insanity, really. I mean, I get the call to adventure. The importance of ambition. But damn, do we have to have the gas pedal all the way down, all the damn time? Where are we even going if no destination is ever good enough to stop?

It's a dirty little secret, this wish. This wish to one day just drive off the road on a whim, park my damn car somewhere, and escape into the wilderness, leaving no trace.

But of course the boredom would kill me eventually.

Probably.