April 16th,
I am alone. And I am running.
Faster and faster I run.
I run miles and I cry because I cannot run fast enough.
My heart is constantly pounding yet I am still.
My left ribs poke me oddly sometimes and I am so hungry I feel no hunger at all.
Sometimes I eat and eat and eat and then for a few days I suffer.
At home I am quiet, except for when I am not.
But I get tired of hearing everyone talk and I am irritable and angry.
I think of all the things I have to do and all the things I cannot do and all the things I have done.
I do not think I will ever feel relief and yet I still dream of it.
I try to be happy but there is too much.
I want to ball my fists up and scream until I cannot breath and throw wooden chairs and sleep for decades.
I want my eyes to stop watering and face to be pretty.
I want to disappear most.
Somewhere I can be alone and cry loudly and talk to myself and figure something, anything out.
And yet I would solve nothing but run out of tears.
And I know things will only get worse for awhile but there must be some light somewhere keeping me here.
And then I wonder why I cannot imagine myself five, or even two years from now and it is a perplexing thing because of all the dreams of death I have and yet there is still that light. A little circle in my heart of hope for tomorrow.