September 18, 2014
I need help, but
I’m afraid to see a therapist and
I’m tired of thinking
I made the wrong decision.
I remember it when all else wanes,
that moment, that decision, the decision not to
say yes to help.
it keeps me cold on still nights
when the only ember warming me to sleep is the possibility of help.
I need help.
I keep finding myself forgetting the living years,
remembering only the present and
hoping not to dream, not to think, not to live,
just to see if the calm is what I pray it is.
Doesn’t anyone else feel like sleep is better than being awake?
Anything is better than being awake
because now all I do is brood,
reflect on the cruelty of childhood
and how different happiness was in childhood.
Oh, how open the seas were in the pirate-filled dreams of my youth,
and how limitless and indifferent they seem now.
Except when they aren’t
and the ceaseless crashing on the remnants of my ruin
break the levees I have shored against them.
All I want is to be alone.
Just leave me alone.
Let me carry my dead with me until I am dead, too,
and I can be reborn with them in the pages of some other’s youth.
Let me retreat.
I need a retreat.