You complain that everything that leaves my mouth is negative.
Yet you get mad when you donât hear from me for weeks because iâm drowning in school.
You always say I talk too much. That this academic path is what I chose and all my other classmates are going through it, so apparently that means I am not allowed to voice my anxiety and stress.
You want me to hold it in and bottle it up? Last time that didnât work out so great and I had bloody wrists for weeks and am still scarred. Last time I did that, I was thankful that it was the Fall semester and that it was so cold that I was able to wear sweatshirts without question so hiding the cuts were so much easier. Last time I did that, I was 0.5 seconds from being another decorum that hung from my balcony. A sight to behold. Weightless. Swaying. Lifeless. I would have been cold, and not just because of the temperature outside. My lips wouldnât have a chance to let words escape ever again. Last time I did that, I drank myself to sleep and into an uncontrollable, inconsolable emotional heap every fucking night. Last time I did that, i smoked so many cigarettes that my lungs charred black. Last time I did that, I cried constantly and just couldnât bare the thought of me living any longer.
You want me to bottle it up? I told you my stress and anxiety is coming back. I told you iâm scared my depression is coming back. I told you! I fucking told you, yet itâs just ânegativityâ in your eyes. I told you that iâm scared because this time, it may be stronger. This time, I may not survive it.
But you want me to bottle it up. Thatâs ok. Iâll listen to you, just like you refuse to listen to me until itâs almost too late. Iâll bottle it up. Iâll seal my lips. Sew them shut.
But if I do so, donât wonder why it ended like it may. Donât wish that you could have done differently cause you know what you had to do. Do what a mother is supposed to. Do like a brother is supposed to. Donât wish that you could hear my voice one last time, cause I gave you those chances. Donât wish you would have listened.
Iâll sew my lips shut, but once the coroner does it to me before the wake, donât wish that you could have gone back to cut the thread to hear my voice again. I gave you those chances. I gave them.
Iâll paint a smile on my pretty little lips. Iâll pretend like everythingâs ok. Iâm like the champagne that I drown myself in. I bottle it up. I bottle it up. I bottle it up. Until the pressure becomes too much. And I burst. Last chance. Strike one. Strike two. Strike three. Game over.
2087
romaincrisis
turnnoffyourmind
titsay
theartofmadeline
