Getting hard to tell if these words even mean anything anymore.
Do you know how it feels
to be tired.
So overwhelmingly tired.
That no amount of sleep replenishes.
No rest rebuilds you.
To be so inescapably
stupidly, exhausted,
that you can feel
in every movement
every bone inside you.
Grinding up against each other,
like rusted worn machinery,
screaming out in mechanical grief.
To be so terribly afraid
of what tomorrow may bring,
that you spend every
tiny bit of will that remains
on keeping today alive.
Because you are already old friends
with the horrors of today.
Do you know how it feels
to lose so completely
your sense of safety? Such
that your home, your very own bed,
becomes alien, a hotel room –
for a fugitive on the run.
Running from a crime they can’t recall committing.
So you dream of things once felt.
VHS tapes, little stacks of game cartridges.
Containing worlds you had a lifetime to explore.
A lifetime in which you didn’t hurt.
And the world was full of great things.
And you were full of great things.
Aching to burst from you,
and paint their colour across your future.
And then you’re awake.
And you’re alone.
And you hurt.
And the world isn’t great.
And it hates you.
And you hate yourself,
because the world told you to.
And you can’t even see a future anymore,
let alone what colour it may be.
Fuck.
Breathe.
I hope that
you never know.
How it feels,
to be this
tired.