Advice

The greatest advice that’s ever been given to me

was that masks will eventually smother the wearer

as if I weren’t already drowning in a sea

of self loathing and despair.

As if the most amazing parts of myself

weren’t stolen from me and thrown about as a conversation piece.

As if my story were just another book on my shelf

and not a tragedy with a broken spine and a crease.

As if my hopes and dreams want me to cease and desist

and my mind and soul want me to cease to exist.

The greatest advice that’s ever been given to me

was to find the deeper meaning in the lines of every book

I read, to take in the subtext and find the meaning.

But instead of reading, it’s in myself I’ll take a look,

as if my skin’s lines of scars didn’t say enough.

As if digging deeper into my flesh could tell

me anything I didn’t already know all of this stuff.

As if I weren’t already aware that I live in hell.

As if the words were louder than the actions I’ve taken

and I weren’t already damned and forsaken.

The greatest advice that’s ever been given to me

was to keep my head high and my middle finger higher

as if it’s better to be a cynic than a believer who can’t see

and better to not feel it all, better to be a liar.

How am I supposed to keep my head high

when it’s weighed down by horrible thoughts of every variety?

How am I supposed to throw my middle finger in the sky

when my hands are shackled by the weight of my anxiety?

The greatest advice that I’ve ever received

was that it’s easier to see than to believe.