I've been crying on and off all day. 

My eyes are bloodshot,

Their bags swollen and red.

My stomach aches from dry heaving,

from coughing so hard.

I look like hell. 

 

Today was the first time in a long time I've wanted to

Kill myself.

I was doing so well. 

 

Waking up, 

feeling like I was one step away from an apocalypse.

And guess what?

I've gained fifteen pounds. 

My engine is dying and my driver's seat snapped backwards

(with me in it).

My savings are at risk, 

and my best friends are off being responsible adults.

While I'm laying in bed.

Trying not to cry.

(Again.)

 

I can't decide what to do with my life and in a couple days I have to get up and perform poetry

... that isn't mine. 

I'm a starving artist,

but without the balls to starve or actually be an artist. 

Everything is not okay. 

My body hurts;

I could sleep for a couple decades

(at least). 

 

So don't tell me to cheer up.

Don't say that this ILLNESS isn't real.

Tell that to my inching eyes, upset stomach, sore muscles.

When everything is a travesty trying to convince you to fall back into bad habits,

Then you can talk to me.

Until then, kindly let me recover

with pills or booze or nights spent staring

(blankly) 

at the wall.