The lack of zoloft.

I’m struggling.  I cannot tell a lie.

The white noise in my head is deafening, the Black Dog is howling.

The general apathy with life is twisting into heartbreaking disappointment and virulent frustration. 

I can’t help wanting.
Missing.
Needing.

More.

It’s not unreasonable things.  It’s the little things.

I try to make the most of it.  I do. Yet my head is a tangled.

I think it’s mangled.

I’m neither greedy nor unrealistic.

Yet I try and plan.  To do things.  To be things.  But nobody will fucking help me.  It’s all for nothing.

And the  disappointment is bitter.

Didn’t you know I was only trying to breath? 

Didn’t you realise If only for one day I needed to believe?

That things could be better.

That this life had potential and the ability to improve.  To change.

Yet it’s all stagnant.  We’re stagnant.

And I can’t breathe.

I just need a little help here.

Would it kill you? Really?

I get these impulses.

To run away.

To  dismantle everything.

To  be destructive.

With the dream of starting anew.
To be something better.  To be something new. 

To dance over the remains with our babies in our arms. Never looking back.

To finally have a future worthy of them. 

To say we were here.  We did something.  We went somewhere.  We tried.

With it without you.

I’d rather with.

But this grenade of words that could blow us apart grows restless under my tongue. 

Part of me would welcome the explosion.

If only to ignite this dark.

I just wanted a good day.  A happy day.

Like normal people have. 

It was obviously too big an ask.

So I’m sorry.

For thinking it.

For wanting it

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