People keep asking me if I’m okay and, quite frankly, I don’t know what to say.
Do I smile as usual, resist the urge to smirk, as if my emotions are connected to my self-worth?
Or do I say what I’m thinking, as I’m collapsing, confess to myself and to them I’m relapsing?
Into what, they wonder, and so do I: into a pit of darkness and eternal night.
People keep asking me for the why and how, as if the ageing of time will trigger memory now.
The latter is easy; a handful, a bottle, onlookers and rescuers I’m tempted to throttle.
The former is blurry; the sarcasm appears, because I’m sure the why is an unresolved fear.
People keep asking, and I continue to refuse, at least until the sensations diffuse.
Inside my soul the incessant itching, the arms and legs constantly twitching.
I can’t help it; I’m distressed, I’m anxious, distraught, for it is only with thoughts of death I am fraught.
Twice now, I’ve survived, barely scraping through. Twice now, I’ve survived, but survival’s nothing new.
