Sharing Grief: And Sometimes…

You just want to die.

You reach the breaking point.

You try to live because you said you would.

The grief is so great.

You know you’re a goddamn burden.

You know it’s a lost cause anyway.

You cry all day because you really fucked up.

You really fuck up.

All the goddamn time.

You are a dumb fuck.

You are self-destructively codependent.

You just want to die.

You promised not to.

You got nothing.

You can’t say what’s really wrong because it’s so shameful.

You can’t say what’s really wrong.

You hope a bus will just make it painless.

You can’t say what’s really wrong.

You. Want. To. Eat. Tylenol for breakfast. Your own bullshit for lunch. Bottles and bottles of Ativan for dinner. drugs. alcohol. more. Just hoping that it will be an accident.

You can’t say what’s really wrong.

You can’t go back to where things were.

You’ll die anyway if they move much more.

You committed and consented to your codependency.

You are just a brave little fucking fuckup.

You should die.

You can’t die.

You just die inside instead.

DIE INSIDE INSTEAD.

Die.

Inside.

Instead.

You see yourself clearly. The ugliness. The beauty. Haha jk. No beauty. Was foolin’.

You make your own bed of nails.

You gotta sleep there.

That’s all there is.

Because sometimes, you look back on the last few months, and you think, “I’ve really made a mess of my life. And I accept the consequences.”

But the consequences are far, far worse that you thought.

Because sometimes, you don’t get to die. You don’t get to leave.

Sometimes, you must face your most agonizing grief. Every. God. Damn. Day. Because. It’s. My. Own. Fault. Anyway.

I deserved it. I said yes. So whose fault is it but my own?

No ones. It’s my own.

So you can’t say what’s really wrong because then you’d make it far far worse. I’m an adult. I know what I got myself into.

You make your own bed.

And now I gotta fucking lie in it. Until natural death, and that’ll be a long, long time.

For the record, I’m not in danger of self-harm. 🙂