At War

I trip over my tongue and stumble over my words because there are too many in my head to choose from, but none of them seem right to describe the chaos that is my mind. You wouldn't understand anyway.

My body shakes and rocks, my bones tremble because sitting still means I'll drown in my own thoughts, never to be seen again. You offer me a blanket thinking I must be cold.

I do feel cold, but not because of a drought, I'm chilled because I've lost my inner flame and with it my sense of self. You say I'm having an off day.

Nothing is going right and every single syllable out of my mouth tastes like poison. My movements all feel rehearsed like they're coming from someone else, someone I don't even know. You suggest that tomorrow will be better.

I am so damn tired from being at war with myself and so damn weak from losing every battle waged between who I am at the moment and who I desperately want to be. You seem to think I just need to take a breath.

Oh if only it were that easy. If only I could simply breath through the pain and feel all brand new tomorrow. Maybe I make things harder than they need to be or maybe things are harder for me. Maybe I'm broken beyond repair or maybe I'm just broken beyond my own repair.

Either way, a blanket and a day off don't seem to be enough to bring me back to myself anymore. I've grown resistant to such simple remedies.