Someone once asked me the question,

“What are your fears and your dreams?”

At the time, I didn’t feel like my answers
were worthy of knowing as they didn’t even make sense to me.
They were to abstract,
and emotionally contradicting
that I could never understand
but I get it now.
I was never afraid that he would beat me,
or that I would OD on something I was given.
However, I was always afraid of being forgotten.
Afraid that my thoughts would break down my defenses,
and I would give way to them without choice,
and I would lose my voice in their shrieks.

I was afraid that the darkness I felt in chest
would come spewing forth into my life,
and It did.
Just not in the way that I was expecting.

These fears became real.
People forgot about me.
They packed their things, and took the first plane from my heart,
and never looked back.

The wall meant to protect me crumbled,
and I surrendered to the monsters in my head.
They drug me from my bed and wrapped me in change.
They whispered their lies and I believed them.
They had me convinced that words were what I needed,
and it’s hard to hear truth when they’re speaking.

The black came out on clothes.
It plagued my relationships and it drowned my hopes.
I keep trying to stay on the surface,
but I’ll be damned if I stay a float when it hurts this much.
Most days are a struggle if I can keep my head up above the
sickness.

Now, what about that last half of the question?
“What are you dreams?”
Thankfully,
I’m still going for them in spite of all of these things,
and that gives me hope.