9-21

I walk in the dark and I cry, but it's no longer hopeless tears and tragedy; it's infection leaving the wound; it's poison bleeding out. I have so much to get rid of within me, I can't seem to move on until it's gone so I walk the familiar path and I let it ooze out. It poured out in words, it pours out in saline tears that wash my eyes clean.

I feel like too much, my sadness is leaching out around me. It's getting boring. I'm boring them, I'm boring myself. I say the words over and over and I cry and I think, I must be done now, but the next morning there's more, and I try to pack it into my body and compartmentalize it but it's a heavy padded mess and it won't stay neat.

It's no longer something I want to deal with. I want to shove it aside and forget it. I want to stop forcing others to hold my hand and help me through. I am tired of this. I am tired. I am exhausting myself chasing my words in circles trying to make sense of it, and I cannot, so I spit the words onto others and let them pick over them, but I am dissatisfied still, and so I walk in the dark and cry and try to shut the words off because I am so so sick of them and they will never make sense to me.