Sinking

With every step I take, I sink further. The stones I have come to count on are fading, and the ropes I hold are fraying. The muck is getting thicker while I lie around getting sicker. The weather is getting worse. This struggle has no worth—one step forward, two steps back into the knives of many. Holding it all in, I’m going to crack.

The friends have all gone, and growing up seems all wrong. Wrong and cruel seems to be the norm for this place called home. I try to fix the wrongs, yet I rip my heart out, trying to figure it all out. Two faces are on everyone, and from everyone come lies. I want so badly to feel, yet when I try, I get ill.

My mind searches for the one, yet my heart knows my chance has come and gone. You say you will be there, yet you run as soon as you get the chance. We had a pact that you sped on and ripped to shreds without care that it was happening to me as you did it—even when you saw my bleeding heart. The words you say have no meaning, the thoughts no caring.

Grabbing for help, you said you would be there, but my hand just passes through air. I want so badly to feel, to care, to love, yet when I try, I run into a wall that has my heart splattered all over it, leaving just a massive bloodstain for all to see. The faces that make up the wall are many, some old and fading, some new and vibrant in their sadistic gratification of achieving the hurt. It’s to my neck now as I try to climb out. They say not to struggle or you will sink faster.

I should stop so I can yell at the bastard who put me here, I think, yet life is struggle, uncertainty, and change, even when you’re hoping for the end. I look for something to grab and find myself holding the blade, the metal cool against my skin, giving false promises of a happy ending if I just draw it down my wrist. The barrel of a gun adds pressure to my temple, offering an easy out. All I have to do is shout for help or for the end, and it will happen.