We’re not ourselves these days. Lying in a cold room. Watch the frost greet the corners of my window and beg to come inside. Kill the crops. Make the leaves bow like some sort of sick ritual. I’m a changing season except this one is unpredictable. There’s a storm in my chest ready to unleash- but that’s okay because Ive never liked the sun much anyways. Ive been buried in my room for days and days and days and I’m getting worse at hiding it. The shallow dips in my voice reverberate off every word I say like a cry for help. Do you think I need help? I guess the only way out of the bed is to stand the fuck up and hover over the mess. I’m trying so fucking hard but these past two years dropped poison under my tongue and I can’t get the taste out of my mouth. Every day the world looks more distressed. Disassembling my mind to try and give it a rest but it never will. I know everyone cares about me in their own way, I’m just trying to figure out how to do the same. It’s giving and taking without doing to much of either. It’s the things I don’t say and the laughter that went hallow. Quietness I’m between sentences. Not giving myself the right amount of grace. Speaking without spitting that poison on the people around me. Everyone looks at me like an open wound -I just hope they don’t see me bleed. -AMT