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Blood on My Hands

This poem is about being pushed to your limit and needing a mental health day.

There will be no blood on my hands when we part ways.

I am used to being a caregiver.

I give too much of myself to others and get nothing back in return.

Like psychic vampires, people suck all the empathy from me until nothing remains.

Until I am at my breaking point.

And I question why I let them do this to me?

I simply feel for people too much.

I run around with a bucket of water putting out the fires of others.

Solving problems I feel only I can solve.

And neglecting my own needs

And my own happiness.

Everyone else is always more important.

Until the day I learned to say "No."

The day I put myself first.

I need a mental health day.

A vacation on the beach to stare at the waves and deal with my own problems.

A margarita and a fancy datebook.

I need to plan my own future away from others.

I got to my breaking point and I broke.

Like a passive-aggressive personality type, the cup is now full and overflowing.

I will now be exploited with all the stressors of my world.

All the emotions I tried to repress will come dripping out.

Like a bomb finally going off in my head.

No, I am not okay.

My mind is broken.

I am trapped.

A large boulder just rolled over me and I am stuck here with all my repressed memories.

I now know I can not move this large rock on my own.

I must reach out for others to save my soul.

The same way I have saved theirs.

Only it's hard to ask for help.

It's hard to say I can not handle this on my own.

I need people.

I need a personal assistant.

I need a nap.

I need clarity and guidance.

I am lost in the jungle and vines are wrapped around my legs holding me in place as a lone monkey gives me a stare down and then walks away unimpressed.

But there will be no blood on my hands when we part ways.

The only blood on my hands is my own.

I was so focused on helping others,

That I forgot about myself.

I am now doing shots of vodka with my demons,

and trying to resolve my own sanity.

I am washing my own blood off my hands. 

*This poem is featured in "Peeling Sanity."

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